Undisclosed

Edward and Tina Sutterfield followed the academic aide into the school administration office’s empty waiting room.

“If you’ll have a seat, Dr. Mallouh will be right with you.”

Edward Sutterfield dropped his 233-pound frame into one of the vacant chairs. “A ten-hour shift, and now you have me scheduled for a school conference? What the hell’s wrong with you, Tina?”

She leaned in, mumbling under her breath. “Don’t start with me, Ed. The person who called me last week said we both needed to be here.”

“What’s the point in enrolling our kid in virtual school if we can’t have a virtual meeting to discuss whatever the problem is?”

“No one said there was a problem.”

“Oh, please. You think we’d be here if there wasn’t a problem?”

The door opened, revealing a Middle Eastern man in his early thirties. He was dressed in a white collared shirt and tan slacks, his black mustache and short-cropped beard matching his jacket and bowtie.

Edward glanced at his wife, his expression a tapestry of prejudice.

The brown-skinned academic flashed a smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Sutterfield? Sorry to have kept you waiting. Dr. Mohammad Mallouh, District-8 counselor. Won’t you come in?”

The couple entered the counselor’s office and sat.

Dr. Mallouh closed the door behind them and took his place behind his desk. “I’ll get straight to the point: Michael has been diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder.”

Tina covered her eyes.

Her husband seemed more annoyed than shocked. “So he doesn’t have many friends… that’s a disorder now?”

“Ed—”

“Mr. Sutterfield, this is a bit more serious than not having friends. Your son has been diagnosed as a sociopath, a dangerous condition found in about three percent of the general population.”

“Sociopath… is that like a psychopath?”

“The conditions are very similar.”

“And you think you’re qualified to render this kind of decision about my kid, Mohammad? I think maybe we should get a second opinion.”

“This is not my diagnosis, Mr. Sutterfield. The GV pod’s results have been checked and double-checked.”

“What a hunk of crap. The porn pods decide who’s crazy now, do they?”

“Actually, that was the reason they were originally designed. With the advent of zero-point-energy, the World Union required a non-intrusive means of identifying ASD subjects in order to prevent them from gaining access to zero-point weapons.”

“I don’t understand. The machine targets them?”

“No, Mrs. Sutterfield. It identifies them. It’s the dark side of introducing an energy source as potent as zero-point-energy. There are always those individuals who would attempt to exploit it to power a weapon. The Global Village was devised as a means of tracking that particular segment of the population.”

“Christ, you make it sound like the kid’s a child molester.”

Tina Sutterfield teared up. “I knew there was something wrong when we found those dead stray cats. Then this last time with the turtle—”

Edward took his wife’s hand. “Our son is a loner, but he’s not a terrorist.”

“Can’t you just prescribe a pill or something?”

“I’m afraid there are no magic pills. Mrs. Sutterfield. The biological seeds of sociopathic behavior are present in the person’s brain at birth.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means, sir, that your son is missing the innate ability to care about others.”

Edward felt his blood pressure rising. “So what’s the solution? Do we lock him up and toss away the key?”

“Of course not. And for the record, punishment is an ineffective tool — at least when it comes to rehabilitation. A sociopath is unable to learn from their mistakes simply because they have no fear or remorse… no conscience.”

“And that’s a crime?”

Dr. Mallouh closed his file. “We were just children at the time, but in the decade that preceded the disclosure of zero-point-energy, there was a tremendous gap between the top earners and the rest of the population. One of the reasons for this was the unusually high number of sociopaths who were hired as CEOs of major multibillion dollar companies. Their sheer ruthlessness and lack of anything resembling a conscience enabled them to abuse their work force and the environment in order to drive stock prices higher, all the while rewarding themselves with obscene amounts of money. It wasn’t just CEOs; sociopaths had risen to power in Russia, North Korea, Hungary, and throughout the Middle East, South America and Africa.

The ‘Rise of the Sociopath’ culminated in 2017 when the Trump Administration essentially eliminated all federal laws safeguarding what was left of the environment. With the brakes off, the result was a runaway Greenhouse Effect. Polar ice melted, causing fresh water to infiltrate the North Atlantic current. Without getting too technical, ocean salinity is what moves this warm water highway and keeps our planet from moving into an Ice Age. Just as frightening, our crops began dying when dense smog clouds choked off the sun’s rays, disrupting photosynthesis. In the critical four to five years it took to bring atmospheric scrubbers powered by zero-point-energy generators online, we very nearly annihilated life on this planet.

“In retrospect, we had allowed greed and fanatical religious beliefs to silence the scientific community. Elections were determined by money, not by the qualifications of the candidates running for office. The two political parties had produced so much gridlock and anger that nothing could be done. It was only after the masses revolted in the wake of near planet-wide starvation that the rules were changed. One of the new checks and balances that was put in place was to safeguard society against the rise of the sociopath in politics, the military, and the new sciences brought forth from The Disclosure Event. This includes Quantum Physics and CE-5 training — the very activities Michael has shown to have both an exceptional interest in and aptitude for.”

Fresh tears flowed down Tina Soderfield’s cheeks. “Don’t ban him from that or we’ll lose him. Please Dr. Mallouh—”

“We’re not going to ban him. We’re going to attempt to use these interests as a reward for Michael taking a positive interest in his own therapy. While he may not have the internal mechanism that allows him to feel, he needs to know that unless he respects the feelings of others — especially those who are different than him — then extraterrestrial contact will be forbidden… and not just by us, but by the Interstellars themselves.”

18

Jessica awoke to the soothing crash and sizzle of waves dying outside her bedroom window. Rolling over, she glanced at the clock on the night stand.

Twelve forty-eight in the afternoon? No wonder my stomach’s growling.

Rolling out of bed, she entered the bathroom and showered, then ordered a decadent omelet before dressing in one of the many workout outfits provided by the efficient Kirsty Brunt.

Forty minutes later she exited her suite, stuffed from lunch. Her intention was to walk to the gym to digest her meal — until she saw the concourse. While the center track was occupied with joggers, it was the Maglev lanes that grabbed her attention as people shot past her on hoverboards like they were snowboarding on air.

“Oh, I gotta try that!”

Returning to her apartment, she located a hoverboard in the hall closet, the smooth fiberglass top supporting adjustable foot straps, the denser underside composed of a hard gray porous material, similar to the surface of the Maglev track.

Jessica exited to the catwalk outside her dwelling and sat down at an empty bench, attempting to pick up a few pointers by observing the hoverboarders. She quickly separated the pedestrians using the Maglev as a means of getting from Point A to Point B from the “subterranean surfers.” The latter occupied the faster outside lanes, cutting S-patterns in a torque-like maneuver which seemed to increase their speed, each change in direction generating a zzzzzttt of protest from the electromagnetic waves being repelled beneath their boards.

Fearing the embarrassment of taking a hard fall, she waited until the concourse was less crowded before she ventured on foot across the fifty-foot-wide expanse to the more forgiving jogging surface located at the center of the track. Checking both directions again to make sure no one was watching, she tucked her I.D. badge inside her workout top before bending over to place her hoverboard to the hard bare gray surface.

One moment she was registering an invisible cushion of resistance — the next she was being dragged across the cold Maglev surface, her right hand caught in one of the foot straps. Twisting sideways, she flung herself free, only to witness the cursed device shooting down the concourse without her.

Bruised, skinned, bleeding and embarrassed, Jessica stepped onto the center track and started jogging, hoping no one had noticed.

The cushioned surface was easy on her joints, but her knees were scraped and sore, forcing her to walk.

“Move to the side!”

She turned to see a quartet of male joggers bearing down on, a powerfully-built heavyset Caucasian man in his early fifties adamantly signaling her to move aside.

Unsure what to do, she jumped onto the Maglev track, nearly getting sideswiped by a woman on a hoverboard.

“Idiot!”

The herd thundered by, their annoyed leader calling out, “walk left, jog right!”

Jessica contemplated turning back when she saw the teen waving at her.

He was tall and lanky, with shoulder-length brown hair and bright blue eyes — she guessed his age to be sixteen. He was cutting figure-eights across the Maglev track, Jessica’s hoverboard tucked under his right arm.

“Lose something?”

“I’ve never seen that board before in my life.”

He smirked. “Want me to show you how to ride it?”

“No. Maybe. Will it hurt?”

“Only if you’re dumb enough to try to mount it with the power on.”

“There’s a power switch?”

He tugged the leash attached to his board and right ankle, powering off the device.

“Now see, that makes sense. But my board doesn’t have—”

Flipping Jessica’s board back-end up, he unzipped a small plastic storage pouch and unraveled the leash.

“So that’s where they hid it.”

“I’m Logan… Logan Remy LaCombe. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Jessica Marulli. I arrived late last night. Aren’t you a little young to be living down here?”

“My mom’s a genetics engineer, my father works security. I’ve been here two years; they home school us kids by computer.”

“Where’s here?”

“Shit if I know. I spend most of my free time surfing the RC… the Residential Concourse. Don’t feel bad about wiping out; the same thing happened to Kari her first time on the Mag.”

“Who’s Kari?”

“Kariane Phillips. She’s sort of my girlfriend. Her old man is one of the religious big shots and he’s like, ‘my daughter is not a box of candy; there will be no free samples.’ And I’m like, ‘Dude, I’m fifteen… do you really expect me to marry her without tasting the goods?’ So you know what he did? He moved his family to an apartment on Level-4, just so I can’t see her.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“So, you wanna learn to ride or what?”

“Just don’t hurt me. My first day of work is Monday and I’m already bruised. Is this the best way to get around? My meeting place seems pretty far, and those weird elevators gave me a headache.”

“The Maglev is definitely more fun, but not the way the old farts use the board, you have to surf the fast currents… the deeper waves.”

Logan handed Jessica her board. “Rule #1: Always make sure the power light is off before you place the board on the Maglev. Next, slip whichever foot you prefer to steer the board with into the rear sleeve.”

Jessica placed her right foot inside the rear stirrup, the left in front.

Logan leaned over and adjusted the straps. “You want these snug, but not so tight that you can’t slip out of them.” He placed the cuff around her right ankle and handed her the slack. “Hold the leash with your left hand. When you’re ready just give it a tug.”

She pulled on the cord, registering the click as the board powered up and levitated off the electromagnetic track, slowly propelling forward on an unseen cushion of energy.

Logan positioned his feet on his own board, yanked his power cord and quickly caught up with her. “See? Easy, right? Okay, you’re in what we call ‘the shallows,’ the kiddie pool. To actually surf the Mag you have to go out into the deep.”

Jessica watched as Logan aimed his hoverboard to the outer section of the track.

Veering to the right she followed in his path, feeling the EM field beneath her board intensify. Imitating the teen, she cut S-patterns back and forth across unseen waves of energy, her lower torso registering patterns within the EM field.

Quickly picking up speed, the two riders soared past the gym and continued on, the ride exhilarating and yet hard work, Jessica’s flexed quadriceps and glutes taking a pounding as she dug into the Maglev equivalent of a river’s rapids.

After several minutes her face hurt from smiling.

As they ventured farther down the concourse, she noticed the suites had become two-story row homes, the “neighborhood” seeming more middle-class. Logan pointed to the second floor balcony of Unit 545-B. “That’s where I live.”

Jessica offered a thumbs-up.

They continued along the Maglev track for another mile before the concourse dead-ended at an eatery and small shopping plaza. A domed ceiling loomed three stories overhead, projecting a blue sky that appeared anything but artificial.

She signaled him to pull over and the two riders powered down.

“Quitting?”

“I’m old. This is harder on the quads than cross-country skiing. Besides, I’ve never been down here; let’s check out the shops.”

“It’s just a mall. Every residential level has one, The eatery has a small grocery store; the shops are kind of lame. But the movie theater’s cool. Level-4 is even better, it has private—”

His expression changed, as if he had said too much.

Jessica brushed it aside. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m good. Anyway, I’m saving my credits for tomorrow. It’s Dim-Sum Sunday. Three to six p.m. Definitely worth checking out.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, but today I’m buying.”

“Oh? Okay, maybe a quick snack.”

Carrying their boards, they entered the eatery — an open-seating café adjacent to three restaurants and a small market. Jessica estimated there were forty people in the complex but saw no staff. “Logan, how many people live down here?”

The teen had loaded a cheeseburger, soda, and two bottled waters onto his tray. “Couple hundred maybe, but that’s just Level-5.”

“What about the other levels?”

“Dunno. I’ve never been on another level. Only Cosmic Clearance can do that.”

She smiled. “Come on, now. I know you and Kariane have been checking out those private boxes in the Level-4 theater. A quick peek at your father’s security schematics and, you probably downloaded at least two secret access routes up to Level-4.”

Logan offered a mischievous grin, holding up three fingers.

“Good for you.” Jessica added an apple to the tray and then took over for Logan, sliding it beneath a scanner to tally the bill.

The machine spoke: “Your total is $7.28. Please swipe your identification and have a nice day.”

Reaching for the lanyard hanging around her neck, she removed the I.D. badge from inside her shirt and glanced back at Logan. “Anything else you’d like before I swipe? Dessert?”

The teenager had gone pale, his jaw slack, his blue eyes staring at the I.D. card in her hand. “You’re Cosmic Clearance?”

“Yes. So what?”

“I was lying. I’ve never been on Level-4, I swear.”

“Okay. Logan, calm down — you’re hyperventilating.”

He wiped tears from his eyes. “I gotta be somewhere, I just remembered.”

He jogged back to the Maglev track, stepped on his board and took off, accelerating down the concourse.

19

Adam lay awake in bed, staring at the sun-drenched window. Ten hours before, he had been convinced a species from another world had been observing him from the other side of the glass.

Seven hours of sleep later, and he wasn’t sure if it had really happened or if it was just a dream.

The scent of brunch and a freshly-brewed pot of coffee drove him from his bed. Guiding his pant leg over his prosthetic he dressed, used the bathroom, and made his way down the stairs.

He found Emily Greer in the kitchen, transferring a pan of hash browns into a serving dish.

She greeted him with a smile. “Good afternoon. How did you sleep?”

“Surprisingly well considering a spaceship from another world practically landed on your house.

Emily smiled. “Just another night at the Greers.”

“Are you saying that this kind of thing happens often?”

“Not often, but it happens. However, you definitely received the VIP treatment. I made hash browns and scrambled eggs, and we have fresh bagels and cream cheese, unless you’d prefer toast. Go on and help yourself; I have to run into town before this afternoon’s training session. Steven pushed it back until four p.m.”

“Where is Steven?”

“Where else? In his study.”

Adam fixed himself a plate of food, poured a cup of coffee, and crossed the hall.

He found Dr. Greer at his desk, reading through a file. He looked up as Adam entered. “Sleep well?”

“All things considered. What are you doing?”

“Reviewing the personnel files of this week’s CE-5 group. I suspect at least one of our guests is not quite who they claim to be.”

“CIA?”

“Or MAJI. The ETs knew, they always do. I think that’s why they waited until the group left before revealing themselves to you.”

“You knew they were coming, didn’t you?”

“I always ask them to make an appearance; I never know if they’ll actually show. As I said last night, every CE-5 session is different. But I did ask them to do something that would eliminate your doubts. And that was impressive.”

“Ya think?” Adam sat on one of the folding chairs. “How do you communicate with another species and ask them to pop in for a visit? Do you have an ET hotline or something?”

“Thought-energy and consciousness is my hotline and it’s theirs; it’s how they communicate with one another across millions of light years. I meditate before each session. Last night I communicated to them that you were on a mission to help us, and if they felt you were worthy, then I suggested they do something to remove your doubts. Years ago, I did the same thing when I was in Phoenix preparing for an important briefing. Google ‘Phoenix Lights’ when you have a chance. That event was bigger; last night was far more personal. I’m sure you thought I was a bit of a kook.”

Adam smiled. “It’s the subject matter. When I tell my brother about what happened last night, he may dissociate himself from me.”

“You need to understand — the ridicule attached with seeing UFOs… it was all intended. Back in 1953, the CIA actually hired Disney Studios to create cartoons about little green men so that the subject would never be taken seriously — de-fanging the whole issue into silliness. It will take a lot of courage to pursue this, not just in terms of one’s own personal safety, but also your reputation. You’re going to be ridiculed and laughed out of meetings; you’re going to be ostracized. Everything terrible you can imagine has been said about me, and so what? I mean, you just expect it… but most people in the public eye don’t want to go through it.

“I wrote a paper about this called, When Disclosure Serves Secrecy. It’s on our website, SiriusDisclosure.com — I suggest you read it. The paper describes the dangers of doing what we’ve done and how the process of disclosure is being hijacked by charlatans who masquerade as disclosure supporters. It’s an old CIA trick they’ve used time and time again to diffuse the threat of the public learning the truth about a subject from the inside. In my case, they attached nonsense to the body of evidence I compiled; things exacerbating the fear factor and the silliness — the whole evil aliens are coming to eat us for lunch. The CIA has gone to extraordinary lengths to perpetrate alien abductions in order to add fuel to the craziness associated with UFOs, keeping legitimate scientists from getting involved.”

“But you got involved. You weren’t afraid.”

“I had a sighting when I was a boy, plus I had a near-death experience which somewhat inoculated me. Still, my goal was never to brief presidents and CIA directors, and I certainly didn’t expect to have to deal with threats on my life, let alone see harm come to people I cared deeply about. I was working full-time as an emergency and trauma doctor in a North Carolina ER and I loved my work. Using meditation to establish peaceful contact between humans and these visiting Interstellars… I stumbled upon that when I was much younger. My only intention was to show our visitors that there is far more to the human race than the military establishment that was shooting them down. So I founded the Center for the Study of Extraterrestrial Intelligence — a grass roots movement that bypassed governments in order to make peaceful contact with these civilizations as citizen diplomats, much like Physicians for Social Responsibility were citizen diplomats to the Soviet Union during the darkest days of the Cold War.

“Our first really successful CE-5 experience happened with a group of about fifty people on a beach near Pensacola, Florida. Two of our participants were Air Force pilots, one was a colonel. That night we vectored in four ET craft and they materialized and were filmed — it was actually quite close but the night cameras back then weren’t very good. The story ended up on the front page of the Pensacola paper and I suddenly found myself flying way above the radar of some very serious national security guys.

“In March of 1992, about a month after the close encounter in Pensacola, I was invited to attend a conference in Atlanta. Being naive, I thought it was just a UFO convention. Once I arrived I realized half the people there were part of MJ-12.”

“Like who?”

“The former Head of Army Intelligence, the NSA, DIA — a lot of Intel spooks. And they were very confrontational, asking me, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I said, ‘Well, you can read about it, I don’t have any secrets.” I told them I was developing protocols and a team to make contact with these civilizations outside governmental channels because the government was broken. I was told it was none of my business and not to do it. My response was, ‘Try stopping me.’ We kind of had a mano a mano in a hotel room until three in the morning.”

“What changed? How did you go from group meditations to briefing presidents?”

“A senior official at the CIA flew a trusted emissary down on a private jet to visit me in North Carolina. This man’s family founded the California Institute of Technology, one of the most prestigious universities in America. He said, ‘Dr. Greer, do what you were planning on doing and don’t give up. Someone’s got to do this because it’s out of control; moreover someone’s going to have to spearhead a contact protocol — right now, the system is completely dysfunctional.’ I told him that I was an emergency room doctor and I was just doing this ad hoc between ER shifts and raising four children. All the time I’m thinking, ‘why is this guy asking me to do something? Why don’t they just do it themselves?’ That was my initiation into this weird ‘down the rabbit hole’ world of secret projects.

“A few months later William Jefferson Clinton was elected President of the United States. Almost immediately I was approached by people who were friends of his who said, ‘This is something that the president is very interested in.’ Webster Hubble, who was third in command at the Justice Department prior to being convicted of some other problems, told me Clinton wanted to know three things when he took office: Who really killed Marilyn Monroe, who killed Jack Kennedy, and what is all this UFO stuff? Apparently they made inquiries into the subject and were not happy with the answers they were getting, meaning they knew they were being lied to. At about that time, some military people who were in favor of disclosure approached me. These people had had UFO experiences, either on battleships or at strategic air command facilities where nuclear weapons were being kept, and they offered to assist me.

“One of these men was a naval commander… very connected up in the Pentagon. When he showed up at my front door, my first thought was that he was a spy. Turns out he was a stand-up guy who did everything he could to set up a number of the deep background briefings that I did at the Pentagon. We decided to have a meeting to discuss how to put together a team that would brief the right folks in government and encourage them to end the secrecy. You have to understand, this was back in 1992-93, when I actually thought we had a functional constitutional government. Since then I’ve learned it’s all window dressing, that there’s a parallel governmental process that operates completely independent of the people we elect.

“Anyway, we had this meeting and it was decided that we should contact certain key people in the U.S. government to — in military speak — de-conflict the CSETI contact teams from Air Force and other military operations so that they didn’t interfere with us and we didn’t interfere with them. That was the whole purpose of the meeting, to make sure we weren’t caught in the middle… to prevent an accidental shooting. It seemed that whenever and wherever we were doing our CE-5, we’d have a run-in with military jets, helicopters, and all kinds of stuff coming into our contact sites… and we still do to this day. All I wanted was to keep my people safe.

“My military advisor met with Admiral Cramer, the Head of Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. After speaking with him he decided we needed to have a meeting with the Intel people at Wright-Patterson, the air force base where the Roswell remains were sent. This was in September of 1993. While that meeting was being set up, two more influential individuals came calling. The first one was Leah Ghali, the wife of Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the U.N. Secretary General. The second was Laurance Rockefeller.

“Laurance was the philosopher king of the family. David Rockefeller was the money guy with Chase Manhattan, and his nephew, Jay Rockefeller was Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. If you recall from my talk, Nelson Rockefeller was the one who had set up the Rockefeller Commission of 1956 which completely reorganized the Department of Defense and the CIA, and led to the establishment of MJ-12—he was the group’s first leader. It was also Nelson Rockefeller who made it so no U.S. president could contain, control, or penetrate MAJI or their unacknowledged UFO projects.”

“You must have gotten some blowback — associating with a Rockefeller.”

“I did, but I knew Laurance was different; I think he wanted to ‘cleanse the family karma.’ He knew what we were doing was really working — he had been sending his people to our CE-5 protocols where ET craft would appear and then disappear. Laurance invited me out to his ranch — the J.Y. Ranch in Wyoming which is where the Clintons vacationed. I was asked to go there in September of 1993 to share information about our CE-5 initiative.

“It was an eclectic crowd. Billionaire Robert Bigelow of Bigelow Aerospace was there, along with people of various backgrounds from the UFO sub-culture. Some were supportive regarding our work; some despised what we were doing. I found out later that the unfriendlies were working for the intelligence community.

“At some juncture over the weekend I was asked what else I was working on. I said, ‘We’ve initiated a project to brief senior government officials in the Clinton Administration and the Pentagon and members of Congress so that we can terminate secrecy on this issue and get the government to change policy because we understand that the incoming president is favorable toward that idea.’

“Well, you could have heard a pin drop. Laurance Rockefeller asked about my plans and I told him I was going straight to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base after this meeting to brief the colonel over this Foreign Technology Division of the Air Force, and then, in a couple of months, I’d be briefing President Clinton’s CIA director.

“Laurance wanted to be involved, but only from behind-the-scenes. He offered to host the president and first lady at his ranch so that I could show them the best available UFO photos and evidence.

“Meanwhile, the U.N. Secretary General’s wife attended a series of events known as salons. A salon was a meeting in a private home attended by dignitaries. The well-to-do host would invite an interesting guest, someone like yours truly, who would inform these rich and powerful people about what was going on, which is exactly what I did. Mrs. Boutros-Ghali was so taken by the subject that she wanted to arrange a meeting at the U.N. so I could brief a lot of the diplomats and friends of hers who were supportive of ending secrecy and making peaceful interplanetary contact. Again, our objective was to provide accurate information to the president, his advisors, and the key people in Congress. We even gave them the perfect story to cover their asses as to why this information had been kept so long from the masses — that world leaders were simply waiting until the Cold War was over, not wanting to throw into the mix the fact that Earth was being visited by interstellar civilizations, and that our scientists had, in fact, reverse-engineered many of their technologies.

“In the fall of 1993, I was invited to speak at Colorado State University. The event was hosted by astronaut Brian O’Leary and Maury Albertson, one of the co-founders of the Peace Corps. Before roughly 800 people I laid out the entire manifesto which justified disclosure and how we should do it. At the end of that talk I noticed a bald man standing at the back of the room, waiting to speak with me. He said, ‘Dr. Greer, my name is Petersen, and I think I can help you with this. I know some folks in Washington who want to know about this, but they’re not getting any good answers.’ I assumed it was some low level staffer for some junior congressman, only he surprised me by telling me it was James Woolsey, the director of Central Intelligence. The two men were good friends and he said Woolsey wanted to be briefed.

“The meeting was eventually set for December 13, 1993. The cover story was a dinner party in Arlington at John Petersen’s home. The CIA director and his wife, Dr. Sue Woolsey, who was the COO of the National Academy of Sciences, would attend along with Emily and myself. So we got a nanny for the kids, flew up to Washington, and had this meeting. I began by showing the director a portfolio of images, photographs, and documents. After about ten minutes Woolsey stopped me. He said he knew UFOs were real, turns out he and his wife had a sighting in New Hampshire when they were younger. What he wanted to know was why no one would discuss it with him or President Clinton.

“My initial thought was that I was being set up. Three hours later I was convinced he knew nothing about these projects; that both he and the president were being completely deceived by those who had compartmented intelligence within the CIA. That was the moment I realized that we were living in a country that had undergone a quiet coup d’état decades earlier — a story that would never be covered by either The New York Times or The Washington Post because it would be the biggest scandal ever.”

“What did you do?”

“I had come to the Woolsey meeting with a white paper which described what needed to be done by the president and his people in order to end the secrecy. I gave it to the CIA director as he was leaving. Woolsey looked at me and he said, ‘How can we disclose something which we have no access to?’

“Well, that was a very chilling question. If we were to push on this, it would unveil the biggest constitutional crisis in the history of the United States. No president wants to admit that they’re out of the loop on important things. They tend to think in terms of activities being either classified, secret, or top-secret, never realizing within these classifications there are compartments. The compartments that are Unacknowledged Special Access Projects are only known to those individuals inside the compartment, and that includes the President of the United States.

“I’ll give you an example of how even a high-ranking official is kept in the dark about a department he’s in charge of. On September 10, 2001—the day before 9/11, Donald Rumsfeld announced that $2.3 trillion was unaccounted for in the Department of Defense budget, based on a recent audit ordered by one of your predecessors, the Under Secretary of Defense. Think about that a moment. The war in Iraq cost American taxpayers a trillion dollars, and Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld is saying there is more than twice that amount — not missing, but unaccounted for.

“I know an auditor who audits my uncle’s old company, Northrop-Grumman. Just like Lockheed-Martin, they do a lot of top-secret work on certain kinds of aircraft dealing with anti-gravity propulsion. If it’s an unacknowledged compartment with billions of dollars in it, the auditor will be told, ‘You don’t have a need to know what’s going on with this,’ and it’s just rubber-stamped as audited. The auditors have no idea where that money is or where it’s going. It goes in the front door and leaves out the window, and no one knows where it ends up.

“My military advisor was involved in one USAP. He and a few others were taken into a SCIF — a Secure Communication Intelligence Facility — completely underground. Everyone’s weapons were taken, their cell phones, watches… anything electronic. A security enforcement officer for that particular USAP escorted them below. The guy took a bullet out of his gun’s chamber and said, ‘If you tell anyone about anything going on in this project, there is a bullet with your name on it and it will find you… somewhere… somehow.’ This is not a movie. This is actually how that world works… the world I’ve been dealing with since 1993. That is serious stuff. Of all the projects that are unacknowledged… black bag operations of all kinds… special operations of all kinds… the blackest and most unacknowledged are the ones dealing with UFOs and extraterrestrial intelligence.

“Listening to this military advisor’s story, I was ready to quit. I mean, here I am, an ER doctor used to dealing with shootings and stabbings… car wrecks and burns… and this bag of crap gets handed off to me and I’m expected to run with it?

“In early February of 1994, a friend of the president came to our home for dinner; I was told that he was a big fundraiser for Bill Clinton. We’re sitting at the table eating dinner when he turns to me in front of my wife and kids and says, ‘The president and his team are really very supportive of what you’re recommending in this white paper, but they’re concerned that if he does this, he’ll end up like Jack Kennedy.’

“I start laughing… I think he’s joking. He stopped me and says, ‘No, they’re not kidding.’ We went into my library to talk in private where he tells me the president and his people were convinced that if he were to push on the UFO issue, he would be subject to TWEP — Termination With Extreme Prejudice. I’m hearing this, thinking — okay, then what am I supposed to do? It’s not like I’ve got a Secret Service detail. He said, ‘No… they want you to do this… go ahead and try to bring this stuff together.’ In other words, President Clinton is afraid he’ll be assassinated if he attempts to bring disclosure to the UFO-ET subject, but I’m expendable. And guess what that makes you, my friend?”

“Damn…”

“Laurance Rockefeller gave me the same line… that it was too dangerous for him, that the money side of his family — the oil people — were already angry at him for pursuing this. He’d support our efforts and he’d arrange for me to meet the Clintons at his ranch — a get-together that finally happened in 1994… my first presidential briefing.”

“So what did you do — you know, when you found out your place on the totem pole?”

“Once I realized the president would never sign an Executive Order, I decided to approach potential allies in both houses of Congress and eye-witnesses in the military and government, believing there was safety in numbers — not just for them but for myself. Between the years 1995 and 1998 we identified dozens of potential witnesses with top-secret clearances who could be subpoenaed and would swear under oath about UFOs and the secrecy behind it. In 1997, we held a meeting at the Westin Hotel in Georgetown for several dozen of these people, along with a few members of Congress… a very private, closed event. Congressman Dan Burton, who was Chairman of the House Government Reform and Oversight Committee showed up; he was interested because one of his closest friends had had a UFO encounter in Indiana some years earlier and told him all about it. Burton was a mover and a shaker; he wanted everything we had on the subject. A short time later someone got to him and he backed off.”

“Steven, how were you able to convince your eyewitnesses to violate their national security oaths in order to come forward and testify?”

“My military people provided the solution. They advised me to draft a UNOD letter.”

“UNOD?”

“Unless Otherwise Directed. The letter basically stated that these USAPs exist and are being run illegally and have been unconstitutional since the 1950s; that the president and other key figures have been lied to, as have the oversight committees of the Congress. It also mentioned how similar illegal programs exist in the United Kingdom and other countries where I had briefings. Therefore, it was our assessment that the National Security Act and secrecy laws that are attached to oaths of secrecy were null and void, and that any man or woman who has knowledge of any document, material, or evidence attached to the UFO and extraterrestrial issue can disclose this information publicly without penalty of law. Unless otherwise directed, we intended to proceed with disclosing this UFO testimony and all related documents.

“To cover ourselves legally, we sent the UNOD letter to the president, the head of the Justice Department, the Pentagon, the CIA, FBI, NSA — basically the entire alphabet soup of the Intel agencies and we sent it return receipt requested to prove it was received. Danny Sheehan, the constitutional attorney who did the Silkwood Case and represented The New York Times in the Pentagon Papers, helped me — pro-bono — on this.”

“I get it. If the programs are illegal, then the oath is invalid.”

“It’s basic constitutional law. The letter essentially exonerates every man and woman in the private and public sector, Intel or the military who ever worked on these projects from any legal penalties related to disclosing information. We used the document to protect every eyewitness and whistleblower that came forward to testify in 2001 for the Disclosure Project.”

“You have to wonder why Eric Snowden didn’t do this.”

“Snowden’s mistake was that he disclosed things that were legal — projects that were being overseen by the president and the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Even though those programs are Big Brother-esque, he should have limited his disclosure to operations that were unacknowledged and illegal. If he had done that, he would not be in legal trouble. He just didn’t know. He was young, and the journalists and people who were working with him didn’t understand the system that well. As a whistleblower it’s okay to disclose the illegal programs, not the legal ones, no matter how outrageous they are. Of course, there are far more potential witnesses who will never come forward because of the threat to their families. This is the type of criminal behavior you’d associate with organized crime, which is exactly what it is… organized crime. I’ve had private conversations with several Apollo astronauts who told me that, when they returned from the moon they were briefed by members of the intelligence community who warned them that, if they ever went public about what they witnessed, their loved ones would be killed.”

“Witnessed… on the moon? You mean extraterrestrials?”

“With the Interstellar community, it’s all about consciousness. We tend to associate NASA with science, but the Apollo program was always an extension of the military industrial complex. When JFK set his challenge to put an American on the moon, the United States and the Soviet Union were at the height of the Cold War.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Are there ETs on the moon?”

“Their structures are located on the dark side. We have several Disclosure witnesses who have seen top-secret photos of these structures, so NASA knew they were there before the Apollo landing. When Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin stepped out of the lunar module, the crater they had landed in was surrounded by Interstellar craft. NASA officials had prepared a fake audio transmission and video footage of astronauts planting an American flag, just in case of that very scenario. You can tell where they cut in because, in one shot, the fake flag caught a gust of wind and moved.”

Adam shook his head. “Is everything about the space program a lie?”

“Which space program? There are two. One is NASA, otherwise known as the biggest white collar welfare program around. Do you have any idea how much American taxpayer monies have been wasted on antiquated rockets like the space shuttle?”

“What was wrong with the space shuttle?”

“For starters, like all rocket-propelled objects, these controlled bombs were inherently dangerous — the equivalent of riding a Roman candle into space. There were six shuttles; two of them blew up, along with their crews. The second and more important space program has existed for the last forty years, and we’ve had reversed-engineered anti-gravitic craft, built by humans. NASA’s using a horse and buggy while Lockheed keeps the Maserati locked up in the garage.”

Steven glanced at the antique clock on his wall. “We don’t have much time; the group will begin arriving in about an hour. I’d like you gone before then. That way I can explain the CE-5 wasn’t for you and I asked you to leave.”

“One last thing: Before Emily woke me last night I had a weird dream… I dreamt an insect-man was watching me from the bedroom window. At least I thought it was a dream, now I’m not so sure.”

“Interesting… There is an intelligent species of ETs that evolved from insects; they’ve become very protective of what we’re doing. Did it have the head of a praying mantis but the arms and legs of a biped?”

“Then it was real? I wasn’t sure… I was so tired.”

“Maybe it came to you in a lucid dream.”

“I don’t know. But if you told me an insect creature would be staring at me from the bedroom window, I’m guessing my reaction would have been to freak out. And yet I never felt threatened, in fact, I felt perfectly at peace.”

“We tend to fear things we don’t understand. What you call an insect creature is simply another intelligent life form that evolved from a different exit point in the animal kingdom. I’m sure they were checking you out, evaluating you to determine whether you were worthy of the close encounter that followed.”

“And the climate change message? Have you ever experienced that before?”

“We don’t need our Interstellar friends to tell us our planet is in trouble. That’s why we’re trying so hard to get our hands on a zero-point-energy application and fund its development before we slide beyond the point of no return. Failing that, either a cataclysmic event or an existential emergency will arise.”

“What kind of existential emergency?”

“The cabal has handcuffed human civilization to fossil fuels for nearly eighty years. As a result, little to nothing has changed — except for the number of people on the planet using the same resources… and that is a reality which is absolutely unsustainable.

“When the air becomes even more unbreathable and the lower class goes extinct, the masses will rise up and revolt to overthrow the center of power, which was always just an illusion anyway. When that happens, MAJI will unleash a False Flag event that will make 9/11 look like a church picnic.”

“What kind of False Flag event?”

“A fake alien invasion using ARVs — Alien Reproduction Vehicles — and scalar weapons. It’s their own apocalyptic version of Independence Day, and they’ve been preparing for it since the 1970s.”

“That’s insane? Why would they do this?”

“Because, Mr. Under Secretary, these warmongers would rather torch the Earth and murder billions of innocent people in a contrived interplanetary war than lose control. The gang-banksters and military industrialists running MAJI have united with the religious right to bring us their own version of the End of Days, and the algorithms to mass destruction are already in play.”

20

The meeting room was shaped like a horseshoe, its rows of elevated seating wrapped halfway around the speaker’s dais, a large projection screen mounted behind the stage.

The guest speaker stood at the lectern, preparing to address a dozen cameras located throughout the near-empty chamber. The event coordinator was seated in the front row wearing a headset connected to an iPad. On screen were thirty-four numbered squares, all but two of them now lit.

A moment later the last two Council members logged on, causing the coordinator to signal to the scientist at the dais to begin.

“Good morning… or evening, whatever the case. My name is Dr. Jessica Marulli, and as the new director of Project Zeus, I’ve been asked to provide a status report on the twenty satellites we hope to put into orbit before the end of the year. As far as the Defense Department is concerned, the Zeus array is simply part of the next generation Space Fence, a ground-based sensor system that had been responsible for tracking the more than 500,000 objects in orbit around Earth, most of which is classified as space junk — all of which is potentially quite dangerous to the International Space Station and our other satellites. While the old Space Fence array could track objects as small as a basketball up to 24,000 kilometers away, the Zeus satellites will provide the Space Surveillance Network with an entirely different set of tracking sensors.

“The Zeus array is, in essence, an ITS or Interstellar Tracking System. It has been designed to track objects as they pass from higher dimensions into our third dimensional physical universe. By deploying these twenty ITS satellites around the Earth, we’ll be able to lock onto and track any extraterrestrial vehicle passing through the crossing point of light anywhere between our sun and just inside of the asteroid belt which lies between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter.

“To handle the enormous energy loads required to power the satellite’s ITS unit, as well as its onboard EM shield, our team turned to the same source of energy used to power the interstellar vehicles we’ll be targeting: zero-point-energy.”

Jessica held out her hand, allowing a hologram of a doughnut-shaped object to appear to rest in her palm.

“We initially used a first-generation rotary ZPE prototype which was based on a design by Professor John Searl at Cambridge. All human-invented ZPE devices are classified as first-generation units; the more advanced devices having been reverse-engineered from the interstellar craft downed over the last seventy years. Even though this unit is relatively small, the generator can still produce enough energy to power the Empire State Building for the next thousand years. Let me show you how it works.”

She pretended to toss the hologram, which expanded across the stage until it was the size of a pick-up truck.

“A little stage craft, but at least now we can see how these amazing generators work. First, some quick basics: Energy is everywhere. The challenge is to convert it to power, defined as voltage multiplied by current to equal wattage. What Professor Searl designed is a closed circuit perpetual generator which produces a quantum vacuum flux field using zero-point-energy. It is powered by the electrons which perpetually surround us, producing clean and unlimited electricity.”

Using her iPad controls, Jessica removed the top of the hologram, allowing her remote video audience to see inside the zero-point-energy generator.

“Looking down inside the doughnut, we can see it contains three circular ring plates, one inside the next. Suspended within these ring plates are rollers, each the size of a 9 volt battery. These rollers, along with their ring plates, possess a magnetic north and south pole. As a result, the rollers float above the magnetic field without actually touching the ring plate. The process of rapidly circulating these rollers around the ring plates in order to generate electricity begins when one powers up the unit’s positively-charged neodymium core.”

The inner rim of the doughnut hole glowed neon-blue, causing neon-red particles to suddenly appear out of thin air and race into the center of the device.

“As you can see, the red negatively-charged electrons, which exist all around us, immediately rush into the device like male dogs going after a pack of bitches in heat. They mate together to form boson pairs, color-coded in purple here. The boson pairs compress and then exit through the central core to the first outer ring where they cause the twelve rollers to accelerate to speeds averaging 250 miles an hour. From there they pass through a magnetic layer which both excites and pulls them through the second ring where they cause these rollers to revolve at a velocity exceeding 600 miles an hour. Finally, the electrons exit to the copper emitter layer where they join trillions of other boson pairs in ring three, spinning these rollers at over 1,500 miles an hour. A switch directs the generated electricity through standard coils, completing the electrical circuit. Unlike conventional generators which heat up after prolonged use, the zero-point unit remains cool no matter how long it runs. There’s no fuel needed, no toxins released — the unit is powered solely by the electrons entering the unit and the internal tensions of the atoms. It is, literally, a source of endless clean energy.”

Jessica shut off the hologram. “Powered by these zero-point-energy units, our team produced three different operational designs for the ITS, two of which scored above the minimum 92 percentile rating on the Oracle Computer Simulation. Unfortunately, during zero-gravity tests inside the CHIL–Lockheed’s Collaborative Human Immersive Laboratory — the system reported targeting deviation errors exceeding three one-thousandths of a degree. That may not sound like much, but when you’re scanning an area from the Earth to Mars and beyond — that’s a major league whiff.

“The good news is that I was able to isolate the cause of the problem. Turns out the moving parts of the zero-point-energy unit were causing the satellite to wobble just a tick. While it was barely perceptible in our dimension, in an area of space we refer to as the crossing point of light, it was creating quite a noticeable hiccup. Allow me to explain.

“To track a fast-moving object in space requires a laser. A laser is essentially an amplified beam of light. The light you see in this auditorium has a wave component which travels at 186,000 miles per second — a figure more commonly known as the speed of light.

“The crossing point of light is the boundary that separates our third dimensional space from the higher dimensions. We can’t actually track an interstellar space craft moving through these higher dimensions, but we can lock on to the disturbance created when the ET vessel crosses over. To track this disturbance requires us to use a scalar wave.

“A scalar is a longitudinal wave that travels way beyond the speed of light and in multiple dimensions. The geeks working at Nellis Air Force Base back in 1947 discovered this when they used a scalar wave to track three interstellar craft as they passed through the crossing point of light — in other words, as they stepped down from a higher dimension into our physical dimension. The scalar wave caused two of the interstellar craft to collide. One crashed northwest of Roswell, New Mexico; the other about a hundred miles west of the first. We were able to salvage a treasure-trove of the ETs’ technology.

“Getting back to the Interstellar Tracking System, I swapped out a first-generation zero-point-energy generator with one of the more advanced ZPE units reverse-engineered from the ET craft. These devices use nano-crystals as opposed to rotating gyros, thus eliminating the wobble. The results from my CHIL lab were perfect. Once we replace all twenty first-gen ZPE units with the nano-crystal generators, the satellites should be ready to launch. Are there any questions?”

Lydia Gagnon signaled from the vacant first row. “Dr. Marulli, we have multiple requests for you to expand upon how interstellar craft travel through space.”

“First let me state that a rocket is a very inefficient method of propulsion; you’re essentially pushing a craft through space. Interstellar craft travel by phasing in and out of higher dimensions where time and space do not exist.

“Think of these higher dimensions as an intergalactic short cut, linking any two points. To enter these higher dimensions requires an electromagnetic propulsion system which draws energy from the zero-point field. The process creates an anti-gravitic effect, or what we refer to as a bubble in space-time. Traveling inside the bubble allows a craft to access the higher dimensions. When it’s accessed in the physical dimension, a craft can travel 20,000 miles an hour and then suddenly execute a 90 degree turn with no deceleration effect. All of this falls under what Einstein referred to as ‘spooky magic.’ It’s what makes interstellar travel possible.”

The event coordinator waved once more from the front row. “Dr. Marulli, several Council members would like to know why we haven’t used zero-point technology to send our own ARVs on missions across the galaxy.”

“Do we have the means to accomplish this? The answer is yes… in fact we’ve had that ability since 1956. As to why we haven’t gone… it seems our Interstellar visitors have quarantined us.”

From her vantage behind the lectern, Jessica could see Lydia’s iPad screen light up like a Christmas tree.

“Dr. Marulli—”

“They want to know why humans have been quarantined.”

“Correct.”

Jessica Marulli stared back at Lydia Gagnon. The event coordinator had warned her on the elevator ride over this morning that this line of questioning would probably come up — that it was a litmus test for all new Cosmic Clearance members — the MAJI equivalent of asking a Supreme Court nominee their feelings about abortion.

“Dr. Gagnon, I don’t think any member of Zeus is qualified to speak for an Interstellar. However, since it was the testing of the atomic bomb during World War II, and the hydrogen bomb a short time later, that appeared to summon our galactic visitors in droves, I think we can safely make a few assumptions.

“First, by our own definition, Interstellars are Type-3 civilizations, the highest rank a species can achieve on the evolutionary scale. By contrast, humans are the definition of a Type-Zero civilization — the lowest rung on the ladder. Violent and self-centered, we have yet to advance beyond the planet-polluting era of fossil fuels, while we continue to teeter between advancing as a species and initiating our own self-destruction. If you question that evaluation, pick up a newspaper. On any given day we’re either bombing or shooting or stabbing one another. To be fair, the Interstellar communities that have shown interest in humanity have been around a lot longer than we have — maybe ten thousand years, maybe a million… who knows? At some time during their own history, they no doubt dealt with their own equivalent of hatred, prejudice, and violence. Homo sapiens also had to evolve from the violent end of the gene pool, our primate brains are wired for conflict. Lest we forget, we did acquire the ETs’ technology by force, shooting down their vehicles. Whether that gives them the right to quarantine the entire human race is a matter of opinion… a quarantine, let me remind you, that includes our own moon. The Interstellar community made it quite clear during the last Apollo missions that they will not tolerate any more lunar landings or flyovers of the far side where their bases are located.”

“One last question… one of our senior Council members is asking about these CE-5 encounters where civilians — acting as self-appointed ambassadors for humanity — have been initiating contact with Interstellar species. Up until now, the efforts of our Air Force to discourage this unauthorized contact has been rendered ineffective by the speed of these ET craft and their ability to move into transdimensional space. The question, Dr. Marulli, is how effective will a fully-functioning Zeus satellite array be in discouraging these CE-5 encounters?”

Jessica flashed a grin. “You’ve heard the expression, ‘like shooting fish in a barrel?’ After Zeus vaporizes the first UFO foolish enough to cross into third dimensional space, I sincerely doubt our Interstellar guests will be responding to Dr. Greer and his followers.”

21

The Pentagon is a city unto itself — 6.6 million square feet of office space supporting 23,000 people, all contained in a five-sided, five-story (with two basements) facility, its 17.5 miles of corridors laid out in ten wedges so that any two points can be reached on foot in ten minutes or less. The building is divided into five concentric rings, from A-Ring out to E-Ring, with the two basement levels extending out to G-Ring. There are ten entrances, a central courtyard, thirty fast-food restaurants, a gym, and a concourse in close proximity to the Metro-bus and Metrorail stations.

Senior officers have their choice of locations, most of whom have the opportunity select E-Ring which has the only offices with windows. The wedge housing the Secretary of Defense and his five under secretaries was considered prime real estate; its office windows facing the Potomac River.

Adam Shariak’s office was located on the third floor, two floors directly below that of his boss, the Secretary of Defense. Seated behind his desk, he reread the document he had just revised for the sixth time in the last two hours. Satisfied with the last edit, he glanced at his watch.

Meeting’s in forty-five minutes Are you going through with this or not?

Steven Greer had answered every question Adam Shariak had, save one — why had William Jefferson Clinton selected him to bring out zero-point-energy? He was neither a politician nor a military insider, held a low security clearance, and knew just enough about the private defense sector to be annoying.

The obvious answer was his brother. As head of the Appropriations Committee, Senator Randy Hall was the perfect person to lead an investigation into whether a compartmentalized entity within the DoD was secretly spending $80 billion a year on illegal Unacknowledged Special Access Projects.

As Dr. Greer had said, “Expose the USAPs and you’d expose the cabal… and with it — the black-shelved energy programs.”

“Okay, but how do I convince my brother that these programs even exist? I need something to show him — a project name… something?”

Dr. Greer had unlocked a tall steel file cabinet, removing a manila folder from a file and made a black and white copy. “In 1997, Admiral Tom Wilson, the Head of Intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, asked me to hold a briefing at the Pentagon. Before we met, I had my military advisor send the admiral this top-secret document.”

He’d handed it to Adam. “As you can see, it originated out of Nellis Air Force Base — the place the public mistakenly calls Area 51. The document was actually a security alert — some UFO spotters had managed to penetrate the perimeter of Nellis and the administrators were forced to shut down test flights of their EMG’s — their electromagnetic, gravitic anti-gravity vessels. What makes the document so valuable is that it came from the National Reconnaissance Office. The NRO is the super-secret spy satellite operations part of the Air Force. As you can see, the document lists a number of compartmented operations by their code names.”

“By compartmented operations, you mean—”

“USAPs.”

Adam had stared at the list. “Red Flag, Dark East, Dark South, Black Jack Team, Black Jack Control…”

“All originating out of Edwards Air Force Base. There were also teams at Nellis and Apertec, as well as other sites. All the important USAP stuff is handled by defense contractors — Lockheed-Martin, EG&G, E-Systems, Raytheon, Northrop-Grumman, Booz Allen Hamilton… Edward Snowden worked for Booz Allen Hamilton; they contract for the National Security Agency. The corporate world is where most of the USAPs get centered; from there they interface with other USAPs within military and intelligence. Attempt to approach them from the government side, and a project gatekeeper will tell you it doesn’t exist. Approach from the corporate side and it’s privatized… a corporate secret, like Microsoft’s code. In this way it’s hermetically sealed from all inquiries — clever yes, but very illegal. Of course, the mafia is always very clever, and this is the biggest mafia in the world.”

Adam turned to the second page, scanning the names of the defense contractors. “Holy shit… Kemp Aerospace?”

Greer nodded. “Maybe that’s why Clinton’s people chose you as their Trojan Horse; they wanted someone on the inside who could testify that these USAPs are real.”

“I need a pen.”

Adam had read through the list of projects again, circling any code names he recognized. “I count six projects that Kemp Aerospace was subcontracted to work on while I was managing director, another three that were grandfathered in by my predecessor, Brian Coker.”

“Are any of them zero-point-energy projects?”

“I have no idea. My clearance wasn’t high enough to sit in on any of these meetings.”

“But you knew the defense contractors involved and their budgets. You could provide that information to your brother… unless of course he already knows it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Adam, it’s possible your brother is a gatekeeper. The covert government always keeps a few operatives in key positions to maintain the secrecy and deny the truth. Former Congressman George Brown of California was a member of the Science and Technology Committee, but he was also on MJ-12’s payroll. Same with Porter Goss, the former CIA Director and Chairman of the House Intelligence Committee. When asked about ETs or Roswell, or any of these USAPs, a gatekeeper assures the person inquiring that he’s checked it out thoroughly and nothing exists. Congressmen never question a gatekeeper, and you only need a few of them overseeing key points of control in these institutions to maintain secrecy.”

“My brother isn’t a gatekeeper for the cabal.”

“There’s only one way to be sure. Give him the list. If he tells you he checked into it and it’s not true, then he’s either on the payroll and he’s lying or he’s afraid of going up against Big Oil.”

“You don’t know my brother.”

“You’re right. But I know Dennis Kucinich. The congressman knew all about UFOs, hell, he’d seen them with his own eyes. Yet he refused to touch the subject — too afraid of the ridicule he’d be forced to endure — and he chaired the House Oversight Subcommittee on Information Technology. James Woolsey… the guy was once a huge ally, now he’s a gatekeeper.”

Adam contemplated this. “Okay. I’ll meet with Randy about this on Monday—”

“No. You can’t take this information directly to your brother; you have to follow proper protocol.”

Adam nodded. “The new Secretary of Defense.”

It had not taken long before General James “Mad Dog” Mattis had butted heads with President Trump and his “personal advisors.” The Defense Secretary’s first “come to Jesus” talk took place on his tenth day in office when Trump began issuing Executive Orders without consulting the departments of government that would be affected by these decrees… especially the military.

A few days later, Trump’s chief strategist, Stephen Bannon, was predicting war with China and the general knew his days as Secretary of Defense were numbered.

Jordan T. Denny, the newly confirmed Secretary of Defense, stared at the document in his hand, his body trembling as he read.

Jordan Denny reread the document twice and then massaged his eyes, as if not believing his Under Secretary was starting his week like this. After a few moments, he returned to the list of project names. “Mr. Under Secretary, which defense contractor subcontracted services to Kemp Aerospace in regard to this first project, cited here as ‘Royal Ops?’ ”

“Sir, I believe that was SAIC.”

Jordan Denny reached across his desk for his phone, hitting the intercom. “Angela, get me Barry Zuckerman over at SAIC.”

“Yes, sir.”

He scanned down to the next name on the list. “What about ‘Cosmic Ops?’ ”

“That was Lockheed. You’ll want to speak to Edward Canup, Jr.; he’s stationed out at Edwards Air Force Base.”

The intercom beeped. “Sir, I have Barry Zuckerman on line one.”

“Thank you, Angela.” He pressed the blinking key. “Barry, Jordan Denny. I’m with Under Secretary Adam Shariak and you’re on speaker.”

“Gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Project Royal Ops — read me in on it, please.”

A moment of silence… followed by: “I’m sorry, Jordan. I can’t do that.”

Jordan Denny snatched up the receiver. “Barry, in case you forgot, I’m the goddam Secretary of Defense. Now read me in on Project Royal Ops.”

Adam watched as his boss’s face flushed red.

“What do you mean I don’t have a need to know? If I’m asking you about… hello? Hello?”

Adam winced as the Secretary slammed the receiver on the hook.

“Can you believe the son of a bitch hung up on me?” He pressed the intercom button again. “Angela, get me Edward… sorry?”

“Canup.”

“Canup. Edward Canup. He’s at Lockheed?”

Adam nodded.

“He’s at Lockheed, Angela. Thank you.”

The Defense Secretary closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Meditation… my wife swears by it. Ever give it a try?”

“This weekend as a matter of fact.”

“Did it calm you down?”

The intercom beeped, cutting off Adam’s reply. “Sir, I have Edward Canup on line two.”

“Mr. Canup, this is Jordan T. Denny, the Secretary of Defense. I want you to read me in on Project Cosmic Ops.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. I’m not familiar with Cosmic Ops.”

“In that case, Mr. Canup, say hello to Adam Shariak. Before he was sworn in as my Comptroller, Mr. Shariak was Project Manager at Kemp Aerospace, a company you subcontracted and paid $1.2 billion to complete work on this unfamiliar Cosmic Ops.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, Adam Shariak never had the clearance to discuss Cosmic Ops, and you do not have a need to know. Have a blessed day.”

Jordan Denny’s eyes widened in disbelief as he was hung up on yet again.

The intercom buzzed through. “Mr. Secretary, you have an important call on the Blue Line.”

The Secretary of Defense picked up the receiver. “Denny here… Yes sir. Stand by, General.” Looking up, he signaled to Adam to wait outside the office.

The Under Secretary exited to the waiting room, feeling like a scolded child.

Angela Hatzileris stared at him from behind her desk. “I’ve served three administrations, and in all that time, I’ve never heard a general sound so upset. What is going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a UFO landed on the White House lawn.”

The administrative assistant chuckled, then covered her mouth as the door opened and Jordan Denny waved Adam back inside.

The Secretary of Defense looked pale. “Apparently, we poked the bear. In no uncertain terms, I’ve been told to cease these inquiries.”

“Told by who?”

“Doesn’t matter. Mr. Shariak, at this particular time, I am satisfied that the proper due diligence regarding the existence and nature of these projects was carried out or they would not have been funded. Therefore, in response to your report—”

“UFOs and extraterrestrial intelligence.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know the nature of the USAPs. They involve the reverse-engineering of advanced technologies taken from interstellar craft that have been shot down over the last seventy years.”

“Christ… are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Let me do my job and I’ll expose this thing.”

“Your job? What the hell do you think the president is going to say if I tell him my new Under Secretary wants to investigate a bunch of black budget projects dealing with aliens? Where do you think this investigation of yours is going to lead? How will you prove your case? Anyone you or your Senator brother subpoena from the defense sector is going to hide under the shield of ‘exclusivity and trade secrets,’ and no one in Congress will dare challenge that. This whole thing is a cluster-fuck and I want no part in it.”

“No problem. When I announce that I just discovered the DoD has been secretly funding $80 billion to $100 billion or more worth of unacknowledged and unapproved special access projects every year — secret projects that neither the president nor Congress have any inkling of, I’ll be sure to mention that you wanted no part in the investigation.”

Adam headed for the door.

“Wait just a minute, goddam it! You want to investigate the matter — fine. But for now it stays an internal investigation inside your office. Funds are missing; we want them found and accounted for — period. I don’t want to hear anything about aliens or UFOs or freakin’ Bigfoot, am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Adam exited the Defense Secretary’s office, his mind racing.

Jordan Denny remained seated behind his desk, gazing at the framed photos of his wife, three children, and two grandchildren arranged on the far corner of his desk.

Screw it. You tried to warn him… he didn’t listen. Just keep him isolated so there’s no blowback.

22

It was 5:41 p.m. when Jessica Marulli summoned Elevator-7 to her location on Level-3, the uppermost floor in the subterranean habitat. After an intense first day, all she could think about was dinner, a hot bath, and bed.

Don’t forget you scheduled a call with Adam…

Today had been the first time she had thought about her fiancé since she had boarded the Boeing 767 back in Baltimore.

Barely a week… was that even possible? Her schedule had been so non-stop and utterly disorienting, it seemed like she hadn’t seen Adam in a month.

Today was the first time she had really missed him.

Her early morning lecture had been followed by a “meet and greet” with her staff in Lab-3C, the work place assigned to Project Zeus. Waiting for her outside the only entrance into the facility was a blue-eyed, brown-haired woman in a white lab coat.

Dr. Sarah Mayhew-Reece appeared to be in her early forties, though Jessica knew from reading her assistant’s personnel file that she was fifty-eight and had earned her doctorate from M.I.T. while her new boss was still in diapers. At five-foot-one, the petite southerner seemed more of a doting mother than a rocket scientist, but by mid-morning Jess found herself more than a little intimidated by the sharp-witted, always probing ‘thinkaholic’ her colleagues teasingly referred to as “Ladybug.”

“Dr. Marulli, so good to finally meet you. As you can see from my identification, I’m Sarah Mayhew-Reece, Zeus’s assistant director. Ya’ll can call me Sarah or Dr. May if you’d like… my last name gets a bit tedious. You’ll find the staff prefers Ladybug — that’s sort of a pet name my husband, Alton, blessed me with. Unfortunately, a co-worker heard him call me Ladybug on a personal Skype message two years ago; since then it’s followed me around like an unwanted shadow.”

“Sarah it is. Call me Jessica.”

“You know, I think it best we keep it as Dr. Marulli. I find informality and beauty with one as young as ya’ll to be a recipe for insubordination.” She whispered, “Some of these men haven’t been with a woman of the flesh for quite some time.”

“Oh-kay… Did you happen to catch my lecture this morning?”

“I did, and I made some notes. We can go over them after you meet our tech team.” Sarah swiped her identification card and pressed her brow against the rubber mold of the retinal scan, causing the bolt of the pneumatic steel door to open with a hiss of air.

Jessica followed her into an anteroom, a warning sign posted above a second pneumatic door.

Sarah pressed a button and the interior door opened, the air pressure blasting them in the face before easing.

A howling wind accompanied the two women as they made their way single-file through a tight empty corridor. Up ahead was a golden-yellow glow coming from the end of the passage which was sealed behind a Plexiglas barrier.

Sarah waved her right hand at the motion detector, causing it to part.

“Welcome to the Hive.”

Lab-3C was contained inside a four-story-high dome; its curved interior walls composed of three-foot-in-diameter honeycomb-shaped panels which radiated a faint golden light. Jessica recognized the material — an advanced polymer designed to block out electromagnetic waves.

More of an assembly area than a lab, the facility spanned the length of two football fields, the open space divided into twenty work stations. Each location encircled an 8,000 pound Zeus satellite, the monoliths lined up like giant dominoes.

Every fourth work station was separated from the next by an eight-foot-high, twenty-foot-long divider. From her vantage, Jessica could not see what these barriers were concealing.

Sarah frowned. “Look at them. They’re like twenty lost children, waiting for their mama to send them off into space. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to their keepers.”

Jessica followed her assistant to the partition situated between work stations four and five. On the other side of the divider was a combination supply depot and break area. Hanging from numbered hooks were tool belts, uniforms and an assortment of bulky orange vests that resembled life-jackets. There was a kitchenette, and a lounge area which consisted of several sofas and recliners, and eight nap pods — all but two of them vacant. Four port-o-potties were paired off by gender, the combination toilet and enema designed to evacuate and “refresh” the bowels.

Project Zeus’s station leaders were dressed in white jumpsuits, the extra padding around their knees and elbows stained dark from wear.

Lois “Lolly” Stern was the first to make an impression on Jessica. Strapped in one of the orange vests, the teal-eyed, forty-eight-year-old engineer was floating upside-down three feet off the ground, her long brown hair hanging below her face like a mop.

Jessica stared at the device strapped across her chest. “An anti-gravitics device? That’s impressive. How high—”

“—three hundred meters; excuse me, Dr. Marulli.” Sarah rushed over to the inverted woman whose face was flushed purple, the veins in her forehead popping out like tree roots. “Lolly, roll into a horizontal position at once before you pop an artery!”

“Dr. May? Did I fall asleep again?”

Sarah grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her into an upright position. Then she turned a harsh parental gaze upon the two men watching the spectacle from their leather recliners. “Mr. Mull… Mr. Mahurin, I thought I asked the two of you to keep an eye on her.”

Chris Mull was in his late forties, his brown hair worn long and tied in a tight ponytail despite a receding forehead. The upper torso of his orange jumpsuit was tied by the sleeves around his waist, exposing his gray Dallas Cowboy’s tee-shirt. “We were watching her, Ladybug. And in the course of watching her, we decided to kill time by wagering on when she’d pass out. I said nine minutes; Lukas went with fourteen.”

“And if she dies from an aneurism?”

“Then all bets are off.”

“No worries, Ladybug. Lolly has good veins.” Lukas Mahurin held a carrot in his mouth like a cigar, his attention focused on the guinea pig feeding from the other end. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Nibbles?”

“Ugh… do you see what I have to put up with, Dr. Marulli? Lolly, we agreed to a maximum of five minutes per session. Ignore my rules again and I’ll ban you from all gravitronic devices.”

“No you won’t.”

Jessica turned to the voice of dissension.

Jeffrey Emmette was in the kitchenette, working on his own assembly line, this one consisting of six deli subs. “Lolly has a herniated disc and frequent inversion is the only thing that takes the pressure off the nerves in her lumbar spine. Cut her off and we’ll have to listen to her whine all day.”

The self-appointed “Sandwich King” ran his eyes over Jessica. “What’re you having, boss lady? I’ve got Italian, turkey-off-the-bone, and two pounds of fresh roast beef that’s nice and bloody. We have another six hours before it starts to go bad.”

“Thank you… maybe later. It’s only nine-twenty in the morning.”

“Around here we eat when we can; you never know when Ladybug is going to call for an all-nighter.” Using a large carving knife, Jeffrey sliced a turkey sub in half, slid it onto a paper plate, then walked over to one of the sealed sleep pods and banged on top of the oval device with the palm of his free hand. “Wake-up, R.B. Eats!”

The pod opened, revealing Rachel Barry, a long-necked, frizzy-haired Caucasian woman in her late thirties. “Did you put mayo on it?”

“Did you ask for mayo?”

“In fact I specifically said no mayo.”

“Then there’s no mayo on it.”

Rachel accepted the sandwich and took a bite. “Asshole.”

Jeffrey Emmette grinned. “Turkey’s a little dry. With dry turkey you gotta add mayo. Ain’t that right, new boss lady? So what’s your poison?”

“Italian with oil and vinegar; hold the mayo and onions.”

“You must have grown up in the northeast… praise God. Not like the assistant boss lady, who kills every sandwich I make her with yellow mustard.”

Ignoring him, Sarah scanned the break area, doing a mental head count. Grimacing, she approached a man soldering scraps of copper at a work table, his Marist College sweatshirt stained in grease. “Ian, where’s Peter and Andrew?”

Ian Concannon never looked up from the ET figurine he was piecing together. “Pete’s trying to fix the leaking A/C duct. I lost track of Andrew. Maybe it’s tea time?”

“Grabowski’s on the shitter,” Lukas said, the guinea pig now feeding off carrot shards covering his groin. “Or should I say, the ‘port-o-loo.’ ”

Lois Stern stretched her back, her complexion having returned to normal. “Did you know in Russia they call it a unitas… as in, ‘You Need Ass.’ True story.”

A tall athletic man with a slight paunch emerged from the men’s port-o-potty, slamming the plastic door shut. “That’s not a story, Lolly, it’s more of an anecdote. A story is what our dear Ladybug will be spinning when I ask her — again — why maintenance still hasn’t drained the sludge out of the men’s shitter. What’s the point of ‘refreshing one’s colon’ if one has to smell it afterward? It’s been two bloody weeks.”

“I was told — again — that all maintenance services will revert to their normal schedules in the fall. Until then, and I quote, ‘your ten zoo keepers can make do,’ no pun intended.”

Andrew Grabowski snorted a reply. “Next turd I vacuum out of my intestines will be in the woman’s shitter; see how you like it then.”

“Enough. This is Dr. Marulli—”

“The new head zookeeper, we know, Ladybug.” Ian looked up from soldering. “Hey, boss lady, how long have you been a member of the Flat Earth Society?”

“I’m sorry?”

Jeffrey Emmette handed her a paper plate holding the two halves of an Italian sub. “What my esteemed colleague is referring to is this morning’s speech. It was a bit… antiquated.”

“It was bullshit.”

Jessica looked up as a powerfully-built man with piercing hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache floated down from the ceiling, a heavy tool belt hanging below his anti-gravitics vest.

“Peter Niedzinski, this is our new—”

“Ops Director, I know. Will you be offing yourself like your predecessor?”

Jessica felt the blood rush from her face. “Scott Hopper committed suicide?”

“Suicide’s the ‘official’ report,” Chris Mull said, hopping off the recliner. “Everyone who saw the body knows he was TWEP-ed.”

“What’s TWEP-ed again?” Lolly asked as she moved into a downward-facing-dog yoga pose.

“Terminated With Extreme Prejudice,” Chris Mull answered. “You can bet the farm it was the bikers.”

“You’re wrong,” Peter said. “Scott was poisoned. Poison is CIA.”

“Yeah, well I spoke to his wife. After they poisoned him they yanked out one of his back molars. The dental calling card is strictly Devil’s Disiples.”

“Stop you guys; you’re freaking Dr. Marulli out.” Rachel wiped mayo from the corner of her mouth. “Besides, it could have been an overdose. I mean — you know, Scott. He had issues.”

“What sort of issues?” Jessica asked.

“He had a conscience,” Chris Mull replied. “Morality and MAJI go together like mayo on an Italian sub.”

Sarah shook her head. “This is entirely improper. The walls have ears—”

“Not today they don’t,” Peter winked. “The Hive’s security system is wired into the EMP shield. By removing one of the panels to access the A/C duct, I may have accidentally severed the circuit. Until I replace the panel we can speak freely.”

“Then I’ll start,” said Ian, holding up his copper extraterrestrial. “Interstellars, new Boss Lady. Are you for ’em or against them?”

“Extraterrestrials? I can’t really say. I mean… I know they’re out there; I’ve just never crossed paths with one.”

“But you helped create a satellite array designed to fry them as they cross into our dimension. Surely you must have something against them?”

“Sorry… Ian, is it? Ian, I think you have the wrong impression about Zeus. It wasn’t designed to be a weapons platform; it simply tracks physical objects moving out of the higher dimensions—”

“—using a scalar wave-based targeting device, which can not only lock on to and track them, but with a bit more juice, it can also vaporize them… poof!” Ian crushed the copper ET in his fist, handing it to Jessica.

“Easy Ian,” Rachel said. “Maybe she didn’t know?”

“I didn’t.”

Lukas held his guinea pig up to his ear. “Hmm… Mr. Nibbles says you’re a brilliant engineer but a bad liar. Any post-graduate physics major knows the only difference between a scalar tracking device and a scalar weapon is the strength of the wave. And… you… just… lobbied… Council… for… more… power,” he said, pretending his pet was speaking

Chris Mull nodded. “The ‘Rodent Whisperer’ speaks the truth. You and the douche bags at Lockheed conjured up that whole wobble story in order to justify equipping each SAT with a nano-crystal zero-point-energy generator. With a device that powerful, you could take down that big mothership parked out by Saturn.”

“Jupiter.” Lois Stern groaned, coming up from her yoga pose. “Anyway, I seriously doubt the Interstellars will allow anything that powerful in orbit.”

Ian retorted, “They won’t know, Lolly, until Zeus starts picking them off like a game of Asteroids. MAJI is setting us up for a war mankind is clearly instigating and can’t possibly win. This whole thing is insane.”

“Then quit!” Jessica snapped, silencing Ian, as well as several cross-conversations. “I’m serious, if you don’t want to be here — resign. That goes for any one of you. If MAJI’s politics don’t suit you, then come and speak to me in private and I’ll transfer you to a job designing widgets.”

She gazed around the break area, all eyes now locked on her. “As I said before, having never met any of these purported species, I have no reason to like or hate them, and the last thing I want is to start a war. But I’m an engineer and a physicist and I was hired to do a job. As far as jacking up the juice on the Zeus SATS… yes, Lockheed’s engineers made it clear that change was necessary. Does that mean I’m happy about placing a scalar device, powered by an advanced ZPE device, aboard these satellites? Hell, no. But no one asked me my opinion when I signed up for this gig and they’re not asking for it now. As for initiating a war, the Air Force has been using scalar waves to shoot down these interstellar craft since 1947. Maybe the array’s threat alone will be enough to convince our out-of-town guests to shut down their bases on the far side of our moon and go annoy some other Type-Zero civilization.

“But it’s not our job to question Council’s motives. My mother was a scientist working on a USAP back when the entity was still calling itself MJ-12. She taught me long ago never to discuss politics with anyone on the inside or outside because there’s always another perspective you can’t see from your limited scope in history. What if the American team working on the atomic bomb back in 1943 had taken the time to debate the ethics of killing tens of thousands of innocent Japanese men, women, and children? If they had, the delay might have allowed Hitler’s scientists to finish their bomb first and we’d all be speaking German. As scientists, it’s our job to provide our military with options; after that, all we can do is pray the powers that be know what the hell they are doing.”

Her fists clenched, Jessica waited for what she anticipated would be an in-her-face rebuttal.

Instead, her staff shocked her by applauding.

Ian Concannon was among the loudest. “None of us want a war with the Interstellars, Doc. To be honest, the whole thing freaks us out. But it’s like you said, each of us was recruited to do a job; now we just want to get it over with and go home to our families.”

Jeffrey nodded. “Your predecessor was a good guy, but he took his work home with him, if you know what I mean.”

She didn’t, until Sarah clarified the statement.

“In dealing with UFOs and ETs, the wonderment of working with cutting-edge science comes with a harsh price. Constantly having to lie about what we do to our loved ones can cause emotional stress. The suicide rate among subterranean techs working on interstellar-related USAPs is over thirty-five percent.”

Jessica turned to Sarah, “How do we requisition twenty of the advanced zero-point-energy devices?”

“That’s Ian’s department.”

“I’m on it. Ladybug. Has Jessica seen the chariots?”

“Not yet. Why don’t you get Dr. Marulli a vest and show her.”

“The chariots?” Jessica turned to the engineer who was sorting through a selection of anti-gravitics vests and helmets hanging from hooks along the partition.

“Trust me, you’ll enjoy this.” Estimating her size, he held out a small vest for Jessica to slip her arms through. “Have you ever worn one of these?”

“I didn’t know they existed until fifteen minutes ago.”

He snapped the three horizontal straps in place, pulling them snugly across her chest. “The Hive’s large enough, but as you’ll see in a moment, this entire Atlas launch facility spans miles, making these vests invaluable. Ah, who am I kidding; we love using them. Inside the back of the vest is a ZPE unit. When you want to go weightless turn this gauge here,” he pointed to the small knob by her left shoulder. “That will cause a high-voltage charge to strike the zero-point-energy field, creating an anti-gravity bubble around you and up you’ll go.”

“How do I steer?”

“That’s a little bizarre. Put this helmet on, then think the direction you want to go, and you’ll go in that direction.”

“You’re kidding?”

“That’s how the Interstellars do it.”

Her heart pounding with adrenaline, Jessica secured the helmet’s chin strap in place and then turned the gauge by her left shoulder to the ON position.

A vibration rose from the bottom of her feet and up through her spinal cord, the sensation tickling her nose as she shed the gravitational forces of Earth and rose off the floor, giggling.

“Oh wow… I could definitely get used to this.”

Securing his own vest and helmet in place, Ian joined her, the two engineers thirty feet above the group, Jessica banking from side to side to get used to sensation of being weightless.

“I love this! I feel like a bee in a hive.”

He held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to tow her to the west end of the lab. Picking up speed, they soared over the satellite stations, quickly approaching the curved wall of a dead end.

When it appeared that he had no intention of slowing down, Jessica tried to jerk her hand free. “Let go! What are you doing?”

Seconds from impact, a section of the honeycomb-shaped panels parted like an expanding ripple on a pond and they flew through the dark opening.

“Oh my…”

The tunnel was immense, its ceiling easily thirty stories.

Perched upright on mobile launch pads were twenty Atlas-V rockets, each unmanned craft towering 191 feet tall. The rockets and their vehicles ran the length of the subterranean facility, which disappeared in the distance.

“Impressive.” She realized Ian was still holding her hand. “You can let go now, Dr. Concannon. And I don’t appreciate you scaring me like you did. Next time tell me the walls are sensor-activated.”

“Sorry.”

“Anything else you think I should know?”

“I’m single.”

“I meant about this facility. I’m guessing the ceiling sections beneath each launch pad are retractable?”

“Yes.”

“And where are they retractable to?”

“The surface.”

“I meant the base location. Where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know. The consensus among the group is somewhere in the Mid-West.”

She continued on, flying over one Atlas rocket after the next, each launch station deserted, a series of blinking red lights framing the darkness ahead.

Ian caught up to her before she flew through the lit passage, grabbing the crook of her arm as she soared over the last vehicle. “Jessica, wait—” They spun in circles, each refusing to ease up.

“Let me go!”

“You can’t go beyond the red lights!”

She stopped struggling. “Why not?”

“We’re not authorized.”

“I am.”

“Not in an anti-gravitics vest. See those red warning lights? Fly past that boundary while you’re inside a zero-point-energy bubble and you’ll be hit by an electromagnetic pulse. Before you know what happened, you’ll strike the concrete like a bug on a windshield.”

Jessica squinted, staring ahead into the pitch. “What’s out there?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not supposed to know.”

She hovered another thirty seconds, her eyes unable to pierce the darkness beyond the blinking red square of lights. “What happens if we land and try to walk past that boundary?”

“I’m not sure what they’ll do to you, but a bunch of nasty Delta Force commandoes armed with M-16s will have me lying spread-eagled on the ground, and it won’t be a pretty sight. Can we go back now?”

Jessica held on to her seat’s support pole as Elevator-7 zigged then zagged horizontally before plunging two stories to Level-5. As the doors thankfully opened and her anxiety eased, she recalled the fear in Ian Concannon’s voice as they had hovered in the darkness over the last Atlas rocket.

From that juncture on, the engineer had referred to her only as Dr. Marulli.

What was he so scared of? We weren’t going to fly beyond those lights—

She waved to Kirsty Brunt as she headed for the catwalk leading to her suite.

Maybe he was afraid we’d see something we weren’t supposed to see?

“Hey!”

Jessica glanced to her left as Logan LaCombe shot past her on his hoverboard. “Hey, you. I thought you were afraid to speak to me?”

He circled back. “I’m not afraid.”

“Are you sure? After all, I am Cosmic Clearance.”

The teen smiled nervously. “I’m sure. I mean… it’s not like I did something wrong.”

“Well, I almost did something wrong. Are you familiar with Level-3?”

“No. But my Dad sometimes works there. “What’d you almost do?”

“I almost flew through a restricted area wearing an anti-gravitics vest. A coupla more seconds and I would have gone splat.”

“Geez. What part of Level-3 were you at?”

“The launch site.”

“Cool. Did you see any ARVs?”

“What’s an ARV?”

The teen’s complexion paled. “I don’t know. You’re the one with Cosmic Clearance… what is it?”

“Logan—”

“Gotta go, Dad wanted me to pick up stuff at the mall for dinner. Laters…”

“Logan, wait… I’m just messing with you. I know what it is—”

She watched as he cut an S-pattern across the fastest section of the Maglev track, disappearing down the transit corridor.

Curiouser and curiouser…

23

The four-bedroom two-story brick house with the candy-apple-red shutters was located on Broad Bay Island. It was not a huge property by any means, but the community was gated and every owner had their own private dock.

Adam arrived at his brother’s home just after six o’clock. He was greeted at the door by his sister-in-law, Melinda.

“Hi, stranger.”

“Ah, come on… I was here for Christmas.” He leaned in for a kiss and entered the foyer. “Something smells good.”

“It’s called leftovers. Randy told me you were coming for dinner about an hour ago.”

“My fault; last minute change of plans.” He followed her to the family room where his niece and nephew were engaged in a video game.

“Jordan, Sean… look who’s here.”

“Hey, Uncle Adam.”

“Hey.”

Neither teen looked up.

Adam smiled. “Adolescence, my favorite years. Where’s Randy?”

“Where else?”

The boat was a 37-foot Post Sport Fisherman which legally held up to twelve passengers, though Adam recalled his brother squeezing twice that many on board at the Super Bowl-LI party. The captain was out on deck with a hose, cleaning out his fish holds.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted.”

Adam swung his right leg over the port rail, followed by his prosthesis, careful not to slip on the wet deck. “They biting?”

“Caught some Rockfish early this morning. Why don’t you grab us a few beers; I’ll finish up and join you inside.”

Adam entered the salon, heading forward past the L-shaped dinette to the galley. Reaching inside the refrigerator, he removed two cans of Budweiser—

— only to be yanked backwards by the collar of his windbreaker and pinned against the stove top, his metallic left foot fighting for balance.

“Easy, slick… that’s a new jacket.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck? A few months in office and you’re calling for an internal investigation of the Pentagon? Who do you think you are? Joe McCarthy?”

Adam pushed his older sibling back. “I found evidence of improprieties and presented it to my boss. Is that a problem?”

“When I get called out of a meeting on Capitol Hill to be told my younger brother’s accusing two of our biggest defense contractors of criminal activity — yeah, that’s a problem.”

“So is informing the Secretary of Defense that he doesn’t have a need-to-know about a defense-funded project when he makes an inquiry.”

“Just because a project is compartmentalized doesn’t make it illegal, Adam.”

“If the president, congress, and the Secretary of Defense have no clue they exist while billions of dollars are flowing through them to God-knows-where, I’d say they were illegal. And don’t tell me my fucking job! I need you to step up and do yours.”

“Okay, Mr. Under Secretary… present your case.”

Reaching into the interior jacket pocket of his windbreaker, Adam removed the folded copy of his report and handed it to his brother.

“Royal Ops… Cosmic Ops… Maj Ops? How would you even know what these projects are? Most of the stuff you handled at Kemp was way above your shitty little douche-bag clearance.”

“There still has to be a paper trail if funds are coming out of the U.S. Treasury.”

“Not if they’re being funded by the CIA.”

Adam felt his face flush. “Is that conjecture or fact, Senator?”

“Let’s just say I recognize a few acronyms.”

“Like MAJI?”

“Who told you about MAJI? Steven Greer?”

“You spying on me, Randy?”

“Just doin’ my job as big brother.”

“Boy, if that’s not a Freudian slip.” Adam pushed past him and flopped onto the wrap-around couch. “Are you a gatekeeper?”

“Fuck you and your conspiracy theories. I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

“Eighty to a hundred billion taxpayer dollars a year in Unacknowledged Special Access Projects? As Head of the Senate Appropriations Committee, I think you’d better make the time.”

“Is that a threat, Adam?”

“I don’t threaten family. But I’m also not going to shit in my pants like the Defense Secretary did this morning. That copy of my investigation you have in your hand — it’s addressed to Senator Hall, not Secretary Denny. Consider my report officially submitted.”

Randy glanced at the first page. “Son of a bitch…”

“So what happens now?”

“Now? Now you get the fuck off my boat.”

His heart pounding, Adam left the unopened beer on the coffee table and exited the salon to the stern. Climbing over the rail, he limped across the pier, following it around the two-story red brick house to his car.

Randy Hall watched the 2011 silver Jeep Grand Cherokee drive off before dialing a memorized number on his cell phone.

“It’s me. I’d say we have a problem.”

Adam arrived at the five-story apartment building at 9:47 p.m. Parking in his reserved spot in the private lot, he turned off the engine, grabbed the still-hot pizza box, and exited the car. He hobbled to the front entrance and keyed in, never noticing the black Ford Mustang that had been following him over the past eight hours as the driver parked across the street.

Apartment 208 was a one-bedroom dwelling on the second floor, the view from its living room balcony overlooking the parking lot and the dumpster poised beneath the building’s garbage chute. While the view and its associated trash collection sound effects were less than desirable, Adam had signed the two-year lease because he liked the fake hardwood floors, affordable rent, and the building’s location, which was within walking distance of a 24-hour gym and the Metrorail’s Greenbelt Station. Having all but moved in with Jessica, it was rare that he ever used the apartment or the gym. He was only here tonight because the Skype call with his fiancée was scheduled for 10:00 p.m. EST and he didn’t want to miss it.

A musty scent greeted him as he opened the door and turned on the lights. The living room was just large enough to hold a couch, coffee table, and a recliner. Chocolate-brown drapes had been left drawn to cover the balcony’s sliding glass doors. To his left was a small kitchen, to his right a short hall which led to a bathroom and his bedroom.

Piled behind the sofa were cardboard boxes filled with his personal office belongings and two prosthetic devices he had been working on before he had resigned from Kemp Aerospace.

Tossing the pizza box onto the coffee table, he hurriedly relieved his bladder and washed his hands and face, the cool water reviving him a bit. He looked as tired as he felt, but he missed Jessica, and the call was important.

Duane Saylor, Steven Greer’s attorney, had explained it when the two had met in his Maryland office earlier that afternoon.

“A Dead-Man’s Trigger only works if the people who are a threat to kill you know it exists, and are convinced the information that will be released upon your death is far worse than anything you can deliver alive. When is the press conference scheduled?”

“Wednesday afternoon at 5:15. That way, I can go live on the evening news.”

“And the call with your fiancée?”

“Tonight at ten.”

“Then we’d better get busy, you have a lot of documents to sign.”

“Hey, babe! Oh my God, it seems—”

Adam waited several seconds for the frozen image of Jessica Marulli to re-animate.

“—so long since I’ve seen you.”

“I know. Jess, this is a bad connection… the image is freezing up.”

“It’s security… there’s a seven second delay. So don’t say anything about our sex life.”

The image froze on her mid-laugh.

“Jess, I need to speak to you about something important.”

For the next several minutes, Adam spun a tale about how his meetings with defense contractors had motivated him to perform an audit by cross-checking the last decade’s worth of projects subcontracted to Kemp Aerospace.

“Jess, nine of our projects could not be accounted for by the Pentagon. Based on what we were paid just for our share of the work, we’re talking about tens of billions of dollars worth of contracts. When the Secretary of Defense asked two of the defense contractors to brief him, they refused, and the blowback was enough to soil Jordan Denny’s underwear.”

“Adam… what are you planning to do?”

“Denny’s letting me run with the ball.”

“You’re opening an investigation?”

“The president wants accountability. Kemp’s share of these projects is nothing. We’re probably looking at $100 billion a year secretly being channeled into these Unacknowledged Special Access Projects.”

“If these are CIA—”

“They’re not. It’s something much bigger… something unbelievable. Jess, if anything should happen to me… I made arrangements for the evidence to be released to the public.”

“Adam, what did you just say? I couldn’t hear—”

The image of Jessica froze mid-sentence.

Adam waited, only this time the transmission didn’t clear.

“Jess, can you hear me? Jessica?”

The screen went black before returning to the Skype logo.

Okay, Shariak. You’ve tossed enough shit for one day; let’s see how long it takes for it to hit the fan.

24

The twenty nano-crystal zero-point-energy generators, and their four armed escorts from Delta Force, arrived at Lab-3C at 1:35 p.m., each device secured within the padded foam confines of an aluminum case. Sarah Mayhew-Reece wasted no time in dividing her technicians into pairs, assigning Chris Mull to work with Jessica at Station-3.

Swapping out the man-made zero-point-energy units for one of the far more powerful nano-crystal devices required removing a section of each satellite’s electromagnetic shield in order to access the circuit board.

Wielding his power ratchet as if the tool were an extension of his hand, Chris Mull had the internal workings exposed before Jessica had donned her orange jumpsuit.

“That was fast.”

“Your predecessor taught me well.”

“I take it you and Dr. Hopper were close?”

“We grew close because of our politics.” Using a flathead screwdriver, Mull pried open a plastic control panel, exposing two columns of buttons. Pressing the third one down caused a horizontal drawer to slide out like the tray of a DVD player.

Inside the unit, connected to a series of red and green couplings, was the hockey-puck-size zero-point-energy device.

“As Dr. May likes to say; the walls have eyes and ears. Be careful what you say.”

“Fuck Ladybug, and fuck MAJI. See this watch? It blocks any sound or video within ten meters with white noise. If I have something to say, I’m going to say it.” Disconnecting the rotary generator, he held it up for inspection. “See this miniature power plant? It wasn’t designed by an advanced race of extraterrestrials; it was conceived and invented by human scientists, many of whom who were murdered. Do you know what their crime was? They were attempting to make the world a better place to live. What right does an oil executive or the CEO of a bank have to keep this technology from the rest of us? Who died and appointed them masters of the universe?”

“I’m not going to debate the issue with you, Mr. Mull.”

“Then debate it with your fiancé. He’s investigating these unauthorized programs. From what I’m told, he intends to bring zero-point-energy to the rest of the world. And we’re going to help him.”

“Who told you that? And who is we?”

“I can’t tell you the who until you help me with the how.”

He opened the aluminum case, revealing a platter-shaped, nano-crystal generator packed in form-fitting foam, its circumference twice the diameter of the unit it was replacing. A smaller doughnut-shaped cut-out lay vacant beside it, intended to hold the manmade ZPE unit it was replacing.

Glancing around to make sure none of the other members of their team were watching, Chris Mull quickly reached inside a compartment of his jumpsuit and removed a rotary-style zero-point energy device, pushing it firmly inside the accommodating vacant foam hole.

“Where did you get that?”

“It’s not real, it’s only the outer casing, but it’ll fool security.” Popping the real rotary generator from the satellite’s power pack, he slipped it inside the hidden compartment of his jumpsuit.

“Mull, put it back — now.”

“There’s a firm in India that can mass-produce these units if we can get a working model to them — Scott made all the arrangements weeks before he was terminated. We can’t have the unit on us when we leave the lab — security performs an external and internal body scan as we exit the Hive — but I can get it out through the kitchen.”

“You’re wasting your breath; I’m not doing this.”

“Tonight will be a late night. Tomorrow you’ll order dinner in. I suggest the lobster thermidor topped with lump crabmeat and a velvety sauce, served on garlic whipped potatoes. Oh yeah… and for dessert — a decadent chocolate crème brûlée with a hint of Grand Marnier.”

Jessica’s lower jaw dropped. “Oh my God… you hacked into my suite’s private server.”

“All room service meals are covered by fancy aluminum covers. The one that will be keeping your lobster thermidor warm will be composed of a lead alloy that will appear solid to the security sensors; in reality, it has a false bottom that pops open to hold the rotary ZPE — just like the one you used to smuggle this empty ZPE shell to me your first night in this facility. Who gave it to you is anyone’s guess… Lydia Gagnon? Kirsty Brunt—”

“Bastard… you set me up!”

“Shh. Wish I could take the credit, but that belongs to someone far higher up on the totem pole. Now pay attention, because your life and your fiancé’s life depends on it. Tomorrow night you’ll order the same lobster meal. The waiter will bring you the hot plate top which will contain the real ZPE unit. At precisely 2:33 a.m you’ll summon Elevator-7 and take it down to Level-23. Only Cosmic Clearance personnel know the lower floors below Level-9 even exist. Exiting the elevator, you’ll proceed to the first checkpoint. The Delta Force commando on duty is named Josh LaCombe… I believe you know his son.”

“Logan?” Jessica felt queasy.

“Give Captain LaCombe the package; he’ll get it to our people on the outside. You’ll have exactly seven minutes to complete the transaction before the security cameras aboard Elevator-7 and on Level-23 cease their video loop.”

“I’m not doing this, Mr. Mull! Now put the real unit back.”

“Too late for that, Dr. Marulli, you’re already involved and implicated. Turn me in, and I’ll squeal like a pig to my MAJI interrogators, confessing that I’m working for you and your accomplice — Under Secretary of Defense, Adam Shariak.”

“The Pentagon has a long history of mismanaging funds. The last reported gaff happened in Fiscal Year 1999 when the Department of Defense somehow ‘misplaced’ $2.3 trillion. When Former Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, went public with this information on September 10, 2001, he blamed the problem on an inability of DoD computers to communicate. Others have called the situation systemic in that the CIA and other intelligence agencies have been operating for decades in a vacuum of secrecy without any Congressional oversight.”

Gripping the edge of the podium, Adam shifted his weight in an attempt to relieve the sciatic nerve pain in his left buttocks.

“The need to maintain secrecy does not give these agencies the right to conduct operations without the knowledge and consent of the President of the United States, nor does it allow them to write blank checks to their partners and associates in the military industrial complex. And yet that is exactly what has been happening. These secret programs, known as Unacknowledged Special Access Projects, or USAPs, have been siphoning approximately $80 billion to $100 billion from the U.S. Treasury every year, generating billions of dollars in unreported revenue for defense contractors. These criminal activities must be stopped and the participants prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

“The challenge is in piercing the gauntlet of lies, greed, and corruption that permeates an industry where retiring military officials routinely enter the private sector as high-salaried lobbyists, and well-connected defense contractors leave the private sector to accept top government military posts. I am an example of that very process. While serving as the managing director at Kemp Aerospace, I accepted billions of dollars worth of subcontracts for defense projects — the specifics of which remained hidden from me for, what I was told were, security reasons.

“What could not be kept from me were the names of these projects, their budgets, and the supervising defense contractors involved. Armed with this information, I was able to cross-check these projects against the allocations of dollars funded by the Pentagon. To my surprise and disgust, I discovered the existence of nine USAPs — projects that were clearly funded by the Department of Defense, despite the fact that no records pertaining to any of these transactions officially exists, either in the public record or inside the Pentagon. While I may not know the nature of these projects, I do know the individuals to subpoena in order to obtain that information.

“These nine projects represent the tip of a massive iceberg of corruption. What is even more troubling is the existence of a shadow quasi-government that has operated under a variety of names over the last six decades, hidden under a transnational umbrella organization composed of rogue elements of the military industrial complex, Wall Street, private banks, and monopolies within the energy sector. This transnational entity not only controls these projects, but clearly possesses their own agenda — an agenda intended to keep them in power by preventing advanced energy technologies from being shared with the rest of the world.

“This, then, is the dirty underside of the iceberg that must be exposed, prosecuted, and permanently shut down. With the support of the Trump Administration, the Comptroller’s office intends on doing just that.

“I do not expect this process to be an easy one. For those individuals working under these umbrella organizations, who have suffered under the pressure of secrecy for so long, I offer complete amnesty and financial incentives if you come forward now and provide information and evidence against these criminals. Once my office issues subpoenas, the financial incentives of this whistleblower program shall be rescinded.

“For those of you out there seething in the shadows, let me assure you — I have come into possession of a list of names and the nature of their crimes against humanity. Should something happen to me or any of my loved ones, the incriminating evidence I have compiled shall be released to the public, and you and yours shall follow us to the grave.”

Having finished reading from his prepared statement, Adam looked up at a sea of raised hands and shout-outs from the attending members of the media.

“I’m sorry. I know you have questions but that’s all I can say at this time.”

Collecting his notes, Adam exited to his right and down a short flight of steps to a small conference room where Secretary of Defense, Jordan Denny, was watching the end of the press conference on a wall-mounted flat screen television, the event broadcast on a two minute delay. Rolled up in his hand was the list of names of those defense contractors Adam wanted to subpoena.

He turned as the Under Secretary entered. “A shadow government has been in existence for the last sixty years… are you insane, Shariak? Where the hell are you getting this information from? You sound like a conspiracy nut.”

“How would you have explained it?”

“I wouldn’t have even brought it up! Two days ago you came to me wanting to investigate misappropriated funds; now you just announced to the world that there’s some transnational umbrella organization out there, made up of the military, Big Oil, and God-knows-who else. How are you going to prove that? By subpoenaing the CEOs of the biggest defense contracting firms in the world? Are you expecting them to confess to being involved in some New World Order? The Illuminati maybe?”

“Who threatened you the other day?”

“No one threatened me, Shariak. But your actions and accusations have sure threatened the defense contractors that keep America safe. And I’m not going to allow you to go on a witch hunt.”

“There’s billions of dollars that cannot be accounted for, Mr. Secretary. Unless you can figure out a better way to shut that deluge of funds off, stay out of the way and let me do my job.”

Snatching the list out of Jordan Denny’s hand, Shariak left the conference room and strode awkwardly down the hall to an emergency exit. Yanking open the metal fire door, he exited the basement floor, limping and dragging himself up two flights of concrete stairs.

He was exhausted by the time he exited the stairwell, emerging on the ground floor of the Pentagon.

A sign indicated he was in C-Ring, Corridor-7.

Patting his pants pockets, Shariak located his iPhone. Stealing a quick glance at the screen, his fingers spun through his contact list as he maneuvered his way through the rush hour crowd, his eyes searching faces for lingering stares.

“Hello?”

“It’s Shariak. Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“C-Ring, Corridor-7.”

“North exit — got it. I’ll meet you outside in four minutes.”

Following the crowd, he headed in the direction of D-Ring.

He was hobbling badly by the time he entered E-Ring. Two minutes later he found himself outside of the north exit beneath threatening gray skies, the change in atmospheric pressure causing the leaves on the surrounding trees to invert.

Up ahead, a black Mustang screeched to a halt by the curb, former Tech Sergeant Eugene Evans waving at him from the open passenger window.

Yanking open the door, Adam climbed in, wheezing from the effort.

“You okay, Captain?”

“I need… to speak… to Greer.”

The bodyguard removed his iPhone from its charger on the console, scrolled through his contacts, and handed the device to Shariak.

“Greer?”

“Well, Mr. Under Secretary, you certainly rattled a lot of tiger cages for one day. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m about to be eaten. How will they come after me?”

“First they’ll offer you money — more money than you can spend in a lifetime. Assuming you turn that down, they’ll try to break you… tarnish your image, accuse you of molesting puppies — anything to prevent you from forcing these defense contractors to testify. Not that they will anyway. They’ll simply plead the fifth.”

“It’s not their answers that are important, Steven. It’s all about starting the conversation by posing questions about UFOs and ETs and zero-point-energy systems on C-SPAN and across the mainstream media. The more they plead the fifth, the more the public will become convinced they’re really hiding something.”

“Don’t be so sure, Shariak. It only takes one well-positioned gatekeeper to derail the entire train.”

25

President Donald John Trump paced like a caged tiger in the Oval Office behind the sitting area as he unleashed his pent-up rage at the members of his National Security Council.

“Since when does some goddam Under Secretary take it upon himself to call a press conference? There’s only one star of this show, and that’s me. What the hell does an Under Secretary even do? Can someone explain that to me? Domenik?”

Domenik Davis, the president’s latest addition to his National Security Council, felt everyone’s eyes upon her. “The Under Secretary serves under the Secretary of Defense. As comptroller, Shariak has oversight responsibilities for all military programs. While he may have blindsided Secretary Denny with some of the things he was suggesting in his press conference, he was essentially doing his job.”

“Domenik… sweetheart — forget Denny, Shariak blindsided me!” He glanced at his watch. “Where the hell is Jordan Denny? Teresa, I specifically asked you to make sure the Secretary of Defense was in this meeting.”

Teresa Ann Hurtienne — one of the president’s three personal assistants — nodded, hoping the affirmation would blunt the anticipated negative response. “Sir, Secretary Denny apologizes; apparently he had an urgent personal matter to attend to and—”

“Fuck him! I’m the goddam president! He’d better be in the goddam hospital dying of fucking cancer to miss this meeting.”

Trump turned to Kellyanne Conway. “Adam Shariak… Kellyanne, who is this guy? Did he work in the campaign?”

“No, sir.” The president’s counselor searched her notes on her iPhone. “He was a General Mattis appointment… an Apache helicopter pilot who served in Iraq… a Purple Heart recipient. Says here he was a war hero.”

“What’d he do?”

“Apparently, he lost his leg in Iraq when his chopper was shot down.”

“I don’t get that. In my book, a war hero is someone who kills the enemy or dives on a loose grenade to save his fellow soldiers. Someone who gets shot down isn’t a war hero, he’s a lousy pilot.”

He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General, according to Shariak, there are military operations being conducted without my knowledge.”

“Not military operations, per se,” General Wade Snuggerud stated. “He referred to them as USAPs. That stands for Unacknowledged Special Access Projects.”

“Do I know about them?”

“No, sir. These are most likely black budget programs run by the CIA and other Intel agencies.”

“Still, $100 billion is a lot of money.”

“Yes sir, it is. And the last president who tried to pull in the CIA’s reins got the back of his skull blown off in Dallas. In my opinion, Shariak has opened a can of worms. He has no idea the size of the shit storm he’ll be summoning if he starts issuing subpoenas to our defense contractors.”

The president turned to Stephen Bannon, his former campaign manager and most trusted advisor. “Stevo, what do you think?”

“Shariak’s expendable. At the same time, the public supports his investigation.”

“You’re not telling me anything.”

“Mr. President, what’s important here is that none of this happened on your watch.”

“Exactly. This is another Obama-Hillary mess.”

“There’s your talking point,” said Bannon.

“Good. Make sure Spicer has that. In fact, I think I’ll put that in a tweet.” The president removed his iPhone from his jacket pocket. “That’s why you’re here, Stephen. You get what’s important.”

The knuckles on Colonel Alexander Johnston’s fists were white as he gripped the padded steering wheel of his Chevy Suburban and waited for the wrought-iron gate to open. Growling through clenched teeth, he nudged the slowly parting fence with the truck’s front bumper before accelerating up the winding driveway to his estate home.

“Yvonne?” The colonel entered the house, stalking past the grand marble-columned entrance and down the hallway leading to his private study.

“Yvonne!”

“I’m in your office.”

He pushed open the solid oak door to find his wife at his desk, busy at his computer.

“You heard?”

“I caught it on CNN.” The gaunt, dark-haired practicing Satanist kept her eyes on the computer screen while her husband continued his rant.

“They never listen. I told them twenty years ago we needed to kill Greer!”

“Greer? Who said anything about Greer? Shariak’s the problem.”

“He’s only the problem because we allowed Steven fucking Greer to brief him. Well, I’m through listening to General Cubit and the rest of those bleeding hearts on Council. This time I’ll handle things my way.”

“Alexander, no one’s going to buy Shariak’s suicide or a diagnosis of stage four cancer hours after announcing his first investigation as Under Secretary.”

“Then we’ll wait a few weeks. Make it look like an accident.”

“Shariak’s a wounded war vet. Killing him, no matter how it’s staged, will only add credibility to the information that will be released upon his death.”

“What information? Shariak only knows what Greer has been spewing on YouTube over the last sixteen years.”

“Yes darling, but in the wake of his press conference, Shariak’s death could elevate information relegated as fringe into the mainstream. I found a better way to deal with this… come and see.”

The colonel walked around to her side of the desk to peer at the array of monitors. “Shariak’s war story? How does that help us?”

“When he was captured and tortured, Captain Shariak was aided by a young Iraqi girl in her teens. ‘My captor was quite clear; if I died, she died.’ ”

“So?”

“Can you gain access to Shariak’s statements that were taken right after his rescue? I need the girl’s name.”

“What for?”

Yvonne Dwyer-Johnston smiled. “Darling, the first step in killing a war hero is to tarnish his medals.”

26

Tuesday had been a nightmare.

Chris Mull had gone on non-stop for nearly an hour, briefing her one moment about where to hide the zero-point-energy device once it was delivered to her suite (we equipped your Maglev hoverboard with a wider-than-usual compartment to stow your leash), and bragging to her the next about the strength of their movement (surely you must have wondered how someone with your fiancé’s credentials could have been appointed Under Secretary of Defense), until Jessica’s overwrought nerves had finally reached their breaking point. The moment she had finished running diagnostic tests on the satellite’s power pack she had fled their station to find her assistant, like a distraught second grader being teased by the classroom bully.

“Sarah, I can’t take it anymore, the man is turning my stomach.”

“Mull? What’s he doing?”

“He just won’t shut up about Scott Hopper and his damn conspiracy theories.”

“Mr. Mull can cross the line at times, but he’s one of my best techs.”

“Then you deal with him, I’ve had my fill.”

“That wasn’t the plan. The objective of having me set up a rotation was to give you an opportunity to evaluate each member of our team before they leave on break. In fairness to Mr. Mull, can you at least wait until after lunch? Otherwise I’d have to—”

“No, Ladybug. I’ve had all I can handle from Mr. Mull — switch me now!”

Sarah’s expression had chastised Jessica even more than her words. “Really, Dr. Marulli? Did ya’ll really want to lower yourself to that? You won’t last very long down here with such thin skin.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Marulli?”

They had turned to find Chris Mull walking toward them, a power drill in his hand.

“I finished testing the scalar wave converter like you asked; everything’s working fine. But I’ll need your help repositioning the outer casing.”

“Chris, Dr. Marulli and I are going over a few things. Ian’s finishing our exchange; when he’s through, I’ll ask him to join ya’ll at Station-2.”

Mull raised his eyebrows in innocence. “Dr. Marulli, did I do something wrong?”

“Did you not just hear Dr. Mayhew-Reece? Wait for Dr. Concannon at your station.”

The tech feigned confusion, then appeared hurt. “Ma’am, if I said something inappropriate, I sincerely apologize.”

Not so sure I won’t turn you in, are you — you smug little shit. And what’s with the drill? Is that supposed to scare me?

Turning on his heel, Chris Mull walked away slowly, casually pressing the trigger on the power drill every few strides, as if sending a message.

The conversion of the twenty Zeus satellite generators from zero-point-energy rotary units to the far more advanced (and lethal) nano-crystal power plants had been completed by late Wednesday afternoon. Over the next two weeks, each satellite would undergo a battery of environmental simulation tests to make sure the equipment would perform in the frigid confines of space. Barring anything unforeseen, Project Zeus would then be greenlit for launch, its payload crew sent home.

Home was where Jessica wanted to be. She had barely slept; her every waking thought consumed by the implications of Chris Mull’s actions and threats. Their paths had not crossed again Tuesday, but he had given her one last push when the work day ended Wednesday afternoon.

“Nice to get off early after yesterday’s all-nighter, huh Dr. Marulli? If you’re ordering in dinner tonight, you should try the lobster thermidor topped with the lump crabmeat. I had it last night; I’m telling you it’s to die for.”

“Actually, Mr. Mull, I hadn’t decided what I’ll be doing for dinner. I might even catch a movie and eat in the mall.”

She had walked away, only to hear, “How’s your fiancé? I hear he’s holding a press conference in about ten minutes. Any idea what that’s about?”

Rushing back to her suite, she had caught the last few minutes of Adam’s speech on C-SPAN.

“These nine projects represent the tip of a massive iceberg of corruption. What is even more troubling than the nature of these projects is the existence of a shadow quasi-government that has operated under a variety of names over the last six decades, hidden under a transnational umbrella organization composed of rogue elements of the military industrial complex, Wall Street, private banks, and monopolies within the energy sector. This transnational entity not only controls these projects, but clearly possesses their own agenda — an agenda intended to keep them in power by preventing advanced energy technologies from being shared with the rest of the world…”

“Jesus, Adam, what are you doing?”

“Good evening, Jessica.”

Startled, Jessica turned to find the two-dimensional projection of her stout gray-haired Swedish nanny addressing her from the other side of the living room mirror.

“Ingrid, what are you doing here; I didn’t summon you.”

“Your low blood sugar summoned me, you need to eat. I ordered you something special. How does lobster thermidor topped with lump crabmeat and a velvety sauce sound, served on garlic whipped potatoes. And for dessert… a decadent chocolate crème brûlée with a hint of Grand Marnier.”

“That sounds incredibly disgusting. Cancel the order; I’m going for a workout.”

She stripped as she headed for her bedroom closet, the determined computer program following her from mirror to mirror. “Child, you cannot work out on an empty stomach.”

“Then I’ll have a piece of fruit; eating a rich dinner before exercising will make me puke.” Down to her bra and panties, she grabbed a workout outfit as Ingrid suddenly morphed into Raul.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Senorita, but the waiter is at the door.”

“What’s Spanish for — go fuck yourself?”

“Vete a la mierda.”

Ignoring the sexy male concierge, Jessica quickly pulled on a one-piece bodysuit, then located her sneakers and slipped them on as the doorbell rang. Retrieving the hoverboard from the hall closet, she opened the door to her suite to confront the waiter.

“I didn’t order dinner, Mr. Guzzo. Take it back.”

Pulling the door shut behind her, she jogged to the Maglev track, dropped the board on the grooved surface, positioned her feet inside the straps and gave the leash a hard tug.

The device hummed to life, propelling her above the electromagnetic concourse. Bending deep into each zig and zag, Jessica increased her speed until she was flying down the avenue at more than 25 miles per hour.

The neighborhood changed quickly — too quickly — as she found herself soaring by the 500 block of the townhomes, passing her destination — Unit 545-B.

Her first instinct was to execute a U-turn.

Jessica opened her eyes to throbbing pain coming from the left side of her skull. She was lying on a worn beige sofa in an unfamiliar room, cold droplets of condensation dripping down her left cheek to pool at the nape of her neck.

“Dad, she’s awake.”

Repositioning the ice bag, she saw the teen with the bright blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair. A man she assumed was Logan’s father joined the fifteen-year-old, his brown eyes matching his short-cropped hair, his black jumpsuit the uniform of a security officer.

“Captain Josh LaCombe. My son is a terrific Maglev rider but apparently he’s a lousy teacher. Lesson number one: Know your turning radius and its limitations. The poles along the track are uni-directional, matching the bottom of your board. Like forces repel and propel, opposites attract. If you alter the orientation of the poles beyond ninety degrees—”

“I know, I know. It’s like hitting a brick wall.”

Logan shook his head. “I was trailing maybe sixty feet behind you when your board suddenly stopped and you slammed head-first into the track. It was sick. To be honest, I thought you were dead.”

“Not yet, but the day’s not over.” Jessica winced as she attempted to sit up. “Logan, I need to speak to your father in private. Would you give us a minute please?”

Logan’s complexion paled as his father gave him a hard stare. “Dad, I swear—”

“Go wake your mom; she needs to get ready for work.”

He hesitated.

“Go on.”

The teen left the room.

“Relax, captain. I’m here as a friend. Is this room secure?”

“Ma’am?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“If you mean without Big Brother eavesdropping, I activated white noise dampeners before Logan and I brought you inside.”

He turned as an attractive brunette wearing a pink satin bathrobe entered the room. “Jessica Marulli, this is my wife, Dr. Joyce LaCombe.”

“Call me Joyce. Logan told us he made a new friend. I hope he hasn’t done anything to disrupt your work.”

“Not at all. However, I need to ask you both a few questions. Do either one of you know a man named Chris Mull? He’s an engineer in Lab-3C.”

“No. Josh?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well Captain, he sure acts like he knows you. Apparently, he was close to my predecessor, Scott Hopper and—”

His wife slammed her palm against the bar top. “Happy now? I warned you not to bring her up here.”

“She was hurt.”

“She probably wiped out on purpose.”

“Whoa… easy guys. Maybe I should leave.”

“You’ll leave when we say you can leave.” In one motion the Delta Force officer reached over to the dining room table and collected his taser, powering up the device.

Jessica’s heart raced, her head pounding from the increased blood flow. “Are you threatening me, Captain?”

“I need to know what you value more — my son’s life or that Cosmic Clearance badge dangling from your neck?”

Jessica sat up painfully, tossing the ice bag onto the coffee table. “I think the world of your son, which is why I was en route to your home before I did a head-dive onto the Mag. Mull is setting me up to help him steal a zero-point-energy generator… he demanded I bring it to Captain Josh LaCombe on Level-23, tonight.”

The couple looked at one another, unsure what to think.

“Look, I’m just an engineer. The politics of the job… I try not to think about it. But I don’t trust this guy. He may be telling me the truth, or he may be setting us all up for a firing squad. What I do know is that my life and your family’s lives depend upon us trusting one another, and that means giving me straight answers to the questions I came here to ask you.”

Josh LaCombe glanced at his wife, who nodded.

“Captain, how well did you know Scott Hopper?”

“I’m the one who knew Scott,” said Joyce. “We were recruited from the same Ivy League school and were promoted to Cosmic Clearance together. And yes, we believed — as a majority of the members of MAJI now believe — that zero-point-energy and the other advanced technologies reverse-engineered within these facilities belong to the masses.”

“If the majority feels that way then what’s the problem? Bring the damn thing out.”

“This isn’t a democracy, Marulli,” Captain LaCombe replied. “There are three rings of Council operating in North America — figure seventy-two members, give or take. Worldwide, you’re looking at about three hundred individuals who set policy. Thirty to forty percent of those members are hard line conservatives. Included among them are two dozen seriously maladjusted individuals armed with psychotronic weapons. The sociopaths are the ones who keep the silent majority silent.”

Joyce opened a liquor cabinet and poured herself a drink. “MJ-12 used to be a science-dominated entity. Once the military industrial complex took over in the late 1950s, they began recruiting primarily from the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderberg Group. This ensured MAJI would be controlled by a three-headed monster made up of the banks, the military, and Big Oil. Council’s agenda is now entirely driven by money. Money buys weapons, weapons keep the oil flowing, oil generates money.”

Joyce drained half her glass, then topped it off again before returning the vodka to its cabinet. “I did some checking… Your fiancé is investigating the $100 billion a year that gets lost in the Defense Department’s USAPs. He’s right when he says that’s the tip of the iceberg. MAJI’s annual budget is easily over a trillion dollars.”

Jessica reached for the ice pack, pressing it again to her throbbing head. “A trillion dollars every year? What do they spend it on?”

“Half that money is spent on maintaining these subterranean complexes, another thirty percent is payroll. What’s amazing is the effectiveness of compartmentalizing everything; the majority of the recipients have no idea who they’re working for. Then there’s the religious fanatics, the hired killers, the media, and of course, the politicians. MAJI’s tentacles are everywhere; they’re in the West Wing, on Capitol Hill, inside the Pentagon, the intelligence services, private industry… British Parliament. It’s metastatic cancer, and as Eisenhower feared, it’s grown completely out of control.”

“Where do even they get that kind of money?”

“If I told you that, it would make you physically ill.”

“I’m already physically ill; tell me.”

The captain nodded. “They sell everything… from cocaine and heroin… to women and children. They support rebel forces and sell them guns. They support dictators and terrorists in order to steal their nation’s resources. Most of all, they profit off of endless warfare that has been going on non-stop for forty-plus years. Saddam, Gaddafi, Osama bin Laden… now ISIS. It was our intelligence agencies who recruited and armed those lunatics.”

“Nine-eleven?”

“Please. Do you really believe nineteen Saudi hijackers who could barely operate a crop duster managed to take out their targets while outmaneuvering the most powerful air force in history? Dick Cheney’s been a high-ranking member of MAJI since before you were born; he was running war game exercises the morning of 9/11 that placed fake hijacked blips on the FAA’s screens, using them to divert the F-16 interceptors.”

Joyce drained her glass. “Iraq was all about oil, but not in the way you think. MAJI didn’t want the crude; they just wanted to control the flow in order to set the market. Afghanistan, of course is about heroin, a product controlled by the CIA and delivered by MAJI.” She glanced at her husband. “If you knew how they were delivering it…”

“Of course,” the captain said, cutting her off, “none of that compares to the next war they’ve been planning for more than thirty years.”

“Okay… enough,” Joyce snapped. “We have a major problem with this Chris Mull character. Where’s the zero-point device now?”

“I don’t know.” Jessica said, feeling queasy. “He managed to sneak it out of the Hive using the food services. When I order room service tonight the unit will be concealed within one of the serving dishes. I’m then supposed to wait until 2:30 in the morning and bring it to you.”

“It’s a set-up,” the captain stated. “Once you leave your apartment with the zero-point unit they’ll have you on video. That removes Mull from the equation and implicates you. From that moment on, you’re Mull’s pawn. He’ll be able to do whatever he wants with you. Trust me when I say this… there are some pretty sick individuals working down here.”

Feeling the bile rising in her esophagus, Jessica pushed past Joyce LaCombe and hurried down a short hall. Quickly locating the bathroom, she dropped to her knees before the toilet and wretched.

27

It was after ten p.m. by the time Adam and his new personal bodyguard, Hershel Eugene Evans, arrived at the Greenbelt apartment. It took the former Air Force Tech Sergeant twenty minutes to tap into the building’s security system cameras, allowing him to observe the parking lot, entrance, stairwells and elevators on his laptop computer.

The two men were in the middle of gorging on take-out Chinese food when the intercom buzzed, indicating a guest was waiting outside the building entrance.

Adam checked the small security screen by the front door; Eugene his laptop. “Captain, you know this guy?”

“Yeah. It’s my old boss.”

Dr. Michael Kemp looked tired. At 10:52 at night, this was hardly a social call.

Adam tossed an old army blanket over the Kemp Aerospace cardboard boxes stacked behind his sofa before opening the door. “Michael, what are you doing here?”

“Cut the bullshit and let me in.” The CEO of Kemp Aerospace Industries pushed his way inside, pausing when he spotted the armed man seated at the kitchen table. “Who’s this?”

“An old military buddy. Eugene Evans, Dr. Michael Kemp.”

“Adam, is there someplace we can talk in private?”

“Balcony or the bedroom; take your pick.”

“It’s starting to rain.”

Eugene grabbed his plate. “Talk here, I can eat in the bedroom.”

Kemp waited until the bodyguard had closed the bedroom door. “What the hell are you doing to me? I set up a division of my company to develop the prosthetic device you’re wearing; I paid you well. Is this how you repay me — by accusing Kemp Aerospace of subcontracting illegal projects? By threatening the defense contractors who feed us their scraps?”

“Michael—”

“You stabbed me in the back, Adam. And for what? Because you found a few bookkeeping discrepancies? Why didn’t you come to me first? I would have explained those black op projects were funded by the CIA. I know you’re new to the job, but the Central Intelligence Agency is not required to open their books to the goddam Under Secretary of Defense — Comptroller.”

“Do you think I just fell off the back of a turnip truck, Michael? Pahute Mesa is not a CIA project. Neither are the Groom Lake nor Dreamland MOCs. Those names correspond to something entirely different and you know it. And just because billions in funding were wired out of a CIA account doesn’t it make it acceptable or legal.”

“So that’s it then? You’re going to shut me down?”

“No. I was planning on granting you immunity to testify as part of the whistleblower program.”

“Screw your damn whistleblower program. Do you think Lockheed or SAIC or any of the majors will touch us after you subpoena them? You’ll make Kemp Aerospace radioactive. You’ll get nothing out of them, and you’ll get nothing out of me.”

“If that’s the case then why are you here?”

“I’m here as an emissary. The powers that be are willing to give you a sneak peek behind the curtain in exchange for your cooperation. They’ve asked me to invite you to a special meeting scheduled for next Tuesday evening at 7 p.m. at the Wrigley Mansion in Phoenix, Arizona. I suggest you hear them out.”

“Tell them I accept, on one condition: I want Jessica at the meeting.”

“Dr. Marulli, we’re outside your suite. I need you to open your eyes for the retinal scan. Dr. Marulli?” The nurse leaned over the wheelchair and gently squeezed Jessica’s shoulders until she opened her eyes—

— the retinal scan positioned above the entrance to Suite 512 immediately locking on to her eyes, causing the door to unbolt and swing open. The interior lights bloomed brighter as the nurse pushed the lethargic woman inside her quarters.

“What happened?”

“You had an accident on the Maglev track; you have a second degree concussion.”

“Why am I so sleepy.”

The I.V. we gave you at the clinic contains a sedative to help you rest. Do you want to lie down on the sofa or in bed?”

“Help me to the recliner. What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen… at night.”

“No wonder I’m so hungry.”

“Concierge, report.”

Ingrid appeared in the living room mirror. “My goodness, Jessica. What happened to you?”

“She had a little accident on the Maglev. Order her some dinner and see to it she rests. If she needs any further medical care, summon me at once.” The nurse held her I.D. badge up to the smart mirror and then left.

The Swedish woman tut-tutted. “I warned you that your blood sugar was low… when will you ever listen?”

“Just order me some food.”

“I already did.”

The front door opened and a waiter entered, pushing a cart. “Will you be dining on the terrace tonight, or should I just set you up in front of the recliner?”

“Right here is fine, Mr. Guzzo. What did the concierge order?”

“Your favorite — the lobster thermidor with the crabmeat and garlic whipped potatoes, and the chocolate crème brûlée for dessert.”

Jessica picked at her dinner, barely able to keep her eyes open. She yearned to sleep, but first there was work to do.

Having dismissed the computer-generated concierge, she unscrewed the inside of the metal container that had covered her main course and removed the zero-point-energy device. She located her hoverboard in the canvas pouch of the wheelchair and popped open the compartment that held the leash. Sliding the device inside, she closed the lid, leaving the hoverboard on the recliner.

Lying on the couch, Jessica summoned Raul. “Wake me at two a.m. please.” She was asleep the moment she closed her eyes.

Jessica’s body jerked awake as the doorbell rang. “Raul… who is it?”

“Logan LaCombe.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten-fifteen p.m.”

“Let him in.”

The door unbolted and opened, allowing Logan to enter. “Jess?”

“Over here.”

The teen laid his hoverboard on the recliner next to Jessica’s board and knelt by her side. “How do you feel?”

“My head still hurts, but I’m okay. Thanks for getting me to the clinic. They gave me a sedative… let me sleep, okay?”

She closed her eyes and drifted off.

Logan waited another moment then grabbed one of the hoverboards and left.

Jessica’s eyes flashed open as the doorbell rang again. “Raul?”

“It’s Logan LaCombe. He says he accidentally took the wrong hoverboard.”

“Pain in the ass kid. Let him in.”

The front door opened and the teenager entered. “Sorry. Guess I grabbed your board by accident. It’s set to your fingerprints or I would have ridden it home.” He grabbed his board, left hers on the recliner, and was gone.

Jessica rolled over, but this time sleep evaded her. Sitting up, she reached over to the room service tray and collected the dessert plate and a fork, consuming the chocolate crème brûlée in three bites. Shuffling in her stocking feet to the bedroom, she entered the master bath and showered, washing the dried blood from her scalp.

When she crawled naked into bed it was 11:47 p.m.…

“Jessica? You asked me to wake you. It is oh-two-hundred hours… two in the morning.”

“Thank you, Raul. Now go fuck yourself, please.”

“I’m sorry. How do I—”

“Consult the concierge manual.”

Forcing herself out of bed, Jessica selected a black unitard and matching sweatpants and sneakers from her closet and dressed. Her head was still sore to the touch, her legs a bit wobbly, but she was dealing with a small window of opportunity. Checking the time, she realized she was ahead of schedule.

Don’t want to get to the elevator too early…

She entered the bathroom and feigned using the toilet, wondering if she was peeing into a urine detector. They probably know everything that’s going on inside my body…

She brushed her teeth and checked the time.

2:18…

Exiting the bedroom, Jessica retrieved her white lab coat from the closet and put it on; verifying the small device Captain LaCombe had given her hours earlier was in the side pocket. She was nearly out the door when she remembered the hoverboard. She located it on the recliner and left her suite.

The thoroughfare was empty, the lighting dimmed to simulate the lateness of the hour. Crossing the Maglev track to the southbound lane, she placed the hoverboard on the track… and hesitated.

If you’re questioned, how will you justify using the hoverboard with a concussion? Force of habit? Or you could just say you forgot… although it’s obvious to anyone watching that you’re thinking about it now.

Retrieving the board, she tucked it under her arm and walked back to the cushioned jogging track, calculating how long it would take her by foot to reach the elevators. Don’t go too fast, you don’t want it to appear like you’re on a schedule.

She reached the Level-5 lobby at 2:29. Elevator-7’s doors opened as she approached, beckoning her in.

Scanning the internal panel, she noted there were no levels listed below the Maglev Train Station on Level-9.

“Lab 3-C. Half speed please, I’m nursing a concussion.”

Sorry, Mr. Mull, there’s been a change of plans.

Jessica entered the Hive at 2:35 a.m. She hurried across the assembly area to Sarah’s private office, her head pounding with each painful stride. Locating the security panel outside the door, she noted the current time on the built-in digital clock as it advanced to 2:38.

Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she removed the matchbox-sized device Captain LaCombe had given her and pressed its magnetic side against the wall directly below the keypad, moving it around until she felt it adhere to the circuits embedded inside the wall.

She watched in amazement as the digital clock on the security panel rotated backwards to 2:31 a.m., the electronic dead bolt clicking open.

You’ve only got seven minutes… move!

Opening the unlocked door, she entered Sarah’s office.

The twenty aluminum carrying cases were piled in four stacks of five on the floor by her assistant’s desk. She quickly located the metal attaché labeled Station-3 and removed the fake zero-point-energy unit given to her by Chris Mull. Selecting the Station-16 attaché from the last stack, she swapped out the two devices, placing the working ZPE generator into the Station-3 container, the fake device inside case sixteen.

She had explained her plan to Logan’s parents after the captain had showed her how to use the scrambler to “loop time” on the Hive’s internal security system.

“I’ll order dinner and place the ZPE unit inside my hoverboard as Mull instructed. Send Logan down to check on me around ten o’clock. Have him ‘accidentally’ take my board when he leaves. As he walks out to the Maglev track, he needs to remove and pocket the zero-point-energy generator, using the board to conceal what he’s doing from the security cameras. When he gets out to the track the board won’t power up. Realizing his mistake, Logan will return to my apartment, swap boards, and leave. Instruct him where to hide the unit. If he gets caught with it—”

“We’ll handle it. What about you?”

“At 2:30 in the morning I’ll enter Elevator-7 with my hoverboard as instructed, only instead of delivering the device to you at Level-23 I’ll go up to the Hive. After I deactivate the lab’s security system, I’ll swap Mull’s fake device for one of the real ones we removed from the satellites. If Mull is setting me up, the ZPE unit in attaché three will be real, eliminating any evidence against me — and you’ll have a real zero-point-energy generator.”

Jessica returned the two attaché cases to their proper stacks and exited Sarah’s office. The security scrambler was at 2:36, forcing her to wait another two minutes before she could power off the device. The moment the scrambler’s digital clock advanced to 2:38, she deactivated the unit, watching as the time jumped ahead seven minutes, resetting the Hive’s internal security to 2:45—

— as a heavy baritone rumbling suddenly rattled her eardrums.

Her heart raced—could her actions have triggered an alert? Was the Hive being sealed?

Then she realized the source of the disturbance — the subterranean complex’s roof was retracting!

Were they preparing to launch an Atlas rocket? If only there was only a way to sneak a quick peek without having to open a section of the Hive?

Then she remembered the leaking air conditioner duct.

Crossing the lab to the nearest satellite work station, she removed an anti-gravitics vest and helmet from the supply wall, contemplating her next move carefully.

I could say I was in the Hive catching up on some work when the ceiling started shaking and panels started falling. So I flew up to take a look, afraid the entire A/C duct might collapse on one of the satellites… Bring a roll of duct tape with you to secure the damaged panels.

She located a tool belt which held a roll of silver duct tape as the rumbling abruptly ceased. Slipping off her lab coat, she placed the tool belt around her waist and then slid her arms inside the anti-gravitics vest. Tightening the straps, she secured the helmet’s chin strap and powered up the antigravity unit — searching the ceiling for the gap.

There…

She had barely focused her eyes on the water-stained spot when she felt herself levitate off the concrete deck, the vest accelerating her toward her intended target.

She slowed to hover beneath the six-foot-in-diameter hole, catching her breath. The octagonal ceiling panels surrounding the gap were moist, giving her the confidence she needed to proceed. Prying loose the most damaged of the neighboring panels, she allowed them to fall to the ground in sections before levitating inside the twelve-foot-wide gap.

She found her way easily around the labyrinth of ducts and cables to a thin cobalt-colored tin foil sheathing she knew separated the Hive from the tunnel. Searching her tool belt, Jessica removed a large screwdriver and used it to slice open a three-foot slit in the foil ceiling, making a mental note to duct tape the hole closed when she was done.

Ignoring the sudden urge to pee, she pushed herself head-first through the opening.

From her vantage atop the Hive, she had a clear view of the massive launch tunnel. Ahead were the vertical gantries supporting the twenty Atlas-V rockets. At the far end of the site, it appeared as if a section of the subterranean roof had indeed retracted, the gap outlined by a rectangle of green lights and a sliver of starry night sky.

For several long minutes nothing happened. And then, just as she was about to abandon her perch and return to the Hive, the UFO appeared.

The ship was disc-shaped — about a hundred feet in diameter, with a coned top. Around the edge of the disc were dazzling multi-colored lights — red, blue, green, and yellow. While the disc was spinning counterclockwise, the lights were circling in both directions — fusing and blending into one another in seemingly random patterns, the intensity and quality not of this world.

And yet by its presence within the subterranean structure, Jessica knew the vessel had to be man-made… an Alien Reproduction Vehicle.

She watched, incredulous, as the ARV set down.

I’m too far away to see. I need to be—

Before she could curtail her internal thoughts Jessica shot out of the top of the Hive like a bullet, soaring past the first six gantries before her mind could shout the telepathic command to stop.

She hovered in the semi-darkness, thirty-three-feet above the nose of an Atlas-V rocket, the only sound coming from her heaving chest.

Despite her sprint, the ARV was still a good distance ahead.

If you’re going to do this, you’ll need an explanation as to why you’re buzzing around the Atlas launch site.

“I was working in the lab when the ceiling started to rumble and panels started falling from the ceiling… hell, I thought it was an earthquake. My Cosmic Clearance gives me access to everything, so I left the lab to check it out… is there a problem, marine?”

Satisfied with her story, she flew another quarter mile before spotting the outline of red warning lights which separated the Atlas rockets launch sites from the rest of the tunnel. Ian Concannon had warned her about the boundary being armed with an electromagnetic pulse that would disable her anti-gravitics and she had no interest in crashing twice in one evening.

Jessica landed feet-first in the shadows of the second-to-last gantry. Removing her tool belt and anti-gravity gear, she stowed everything behind a four-foot-thick concrete pillar before speed walking the rest of the way — keeping to the tunnel’s darker periphery.

Detecting movement, she hid behind a vertical steel buttress.

A hatch was opening beneath the saucer section of the ARV, summoning four men in black uniforms from an interior complex out of her line of sight. They were pushing what looked like an extremely large laundry cart. Positioning it as close as they could to the hatch, the men formed a receiving line.

Another man wearing headgear and a black jumpsuit leaned out of the craft — Jessica took him to be the pilot. He quickly became engaged in a heated argument with one of the four worker bees as the ARV’s co-pilot began tossing cinderblock-size parcels wrapped in dark plastic out of the craft to the first loader in line.

“We’re light twenty kilos, and before you start in on your shit, this is the third time in the last two months the fucking FAC had Kfir Fighter Jets waiting for us as we entered Colombian air space. Plus there were another dozen of whatever they call their UH-60 Blackhawks—”

“—Arpia,” said the co-pilot as he tossed another plastic-wrapped cinderblock out of the ARV.

“Right, Arpia. How do you expect us to set down in a fucking jungle patrolled by armed Arpia helicopters?”

“We went over this. You pull a bunch of Mach-30 zig-zags across their radar screens and they won’t know where you’ll set down.”

FAC… he’s talking about the Fuerza Aerea Colombiana… the Colombian Air Force. Jesus, they’re using goddam Alien Reproduction Vehicles to smuggle cocaine into the states!

“You! Hands where I can see them… nice and slow.”

She turned, confronted by a brilliant white light, its 500 Lumens occupying her entire field of vision.

“My name is Dr. Jessica Marulli…” she held up her I.D. “As you can see, I’m Cosmic Clearance. Now get that goddam light out of my eyes before I have you demoted to parking lot attendant.”

She never saw the taser nor felt the sting of its two needle-like prongs as they struck her in the chest and left thigh. By then her mind was already surfing a blinding, deafening 60,000 volt wave of pain which slammed her into unconsciousness.

28

THE WHITE STUCCO DWELLING was set high on a knoll overlooking the Arizona Biltmore Hotel and the city of Phoenix, its orange Spanish roof tile matching the sunset-drenched backdrop of desert mountainside which rose behind the property. Built during the Great Depression by gum magnate and Chicago Cubs owner William Wrigley Jr., the 16,000-square-foot mansion had changed hands several times before eventually being restored as a historic landmark. A popular tourist destination, with an on-site restaurant open to the public, the mansion nevertheless remained a private club that served as a favorite meeting venue for one very well-to-do client.

Former Tech Sergeant Eugene Evans drove the Cadillac limousine up the winding path to the valet station, the vehicle’s tinted rear windows too dark to see the passenger riding in back. The usually open iron gate guarding the main entrance was closed, a posted sign explaining the circumstances:

A man dressed in a black suit and sunglasses rapped on the tinted driver’s side window with his knuckles, his ear piece intended to give away his presence as security.

Eugene Evans rolled down his window. “Under Secretary Adam Shariak.”

“This is as far as you go, pal. We’ll escort Mr. Shariak inside; you can park down below in the Biltmore’s lot.”

A second “valet” opened the rear driver’s side door. “Good evening, Mr. Under Secretary. If you’ll come with me…”

Adam exited the limo, his escort leading him on a long walk to the front of the mansion. He was perspiring by the time they reached the main entrance which was accessible from two parallel flights of steps which framed a decorative mini-garden.

Adam followed the security guard up the staircase on the right, noticing the telltale bulge of the handgun pressing against the back of the man’s jacket. “So, I guess everyone on staff must be excited about the Cubs’ ninth inning rally last night to beat the Dodgers. Think they’ll make it back to the World Series?”

“This is Diamondback territory; no one here gives a damn about the Cubs. The main entrance is through that portal, they’re waiting for you inside.” He smirked. “Try to blend in.”

Thanks, douche bag. Try not to blow your ass off with your 9mm.

Adam made his way to the double doors set inside the alcove entrance, the roof of which served as the bottom of a Juliet balcony. Entering the mansion, he was greeted by a cold blast from an air conditioning vent. Before him was a grand staircase and a dazzling chandelier hanging from a high dome ceiling. As he took in the guests, he quickly realized that everyone was dressed for a black-tie affair… except him.

Michael, you bastard… you could have told me.

A cluster of women in evening gowns and men in custom-fitted tuxedos toasted him from across the room. Adam bowed in his navy-blue blazer and tan slacks and entered the main foyer.

Pretending to be interested in the mansion’s history, he stared at a series of framed black and white photos — using the reflection to track the two Caucasian males in dark suits approaching him from across the room.

“Mr. Shariak, if you’ll come with us, your party is waiting for you upstairs.”

He followed them back out of the foyer and up the winding steps of the grand staircase, his sciatic nerve on full meltdown by the time he reached the second floor. They proceeded down a narrow hallway to a closed door, distinguished from the others by a plaque indicating that Elvis Presley had once slept there.

“She’s waiting for you inside.”

Adam entered, anxious to see his fiancée. The bedroom was empty, but he could see Jessica standing outside on the balcony, her back to him, her shapely figure filling out the topaz evening dress.

Juice…

He caught a whiff of her favorite perfume as he stepped outside and wrapped his arms around the blonde’s narrow waist from behind. He nuzzled her neck — his groin responding as her hand reached between his legs to playfully squeeze his crotch as she turned to face him—

— revealing herself to be another woman.

Adam backed away, his pulse racing. “Who the hell are you?”

“Kelly Kishel, counter-intelligence. I was sent by the Air Force Office of Special Investigations to brief you.”

“Were you also sent here to grope me?”

“Let the record show, Mr. Under Secretary, that you initiated the physical contact. I was just rolling with the punches.”

“Where’s Jessica?”

“Dr. Marulli apologizes, but she could not afford to leave her work at this time. She said you would understand.”

“Get her on the phone; let me speak with her.”

“I’m not authorized to do that. However, I can ask someone to arrange a call the moment your meeting concludes.”

“My terms of this meeting were simple, Agent Kishel. The fact that the Air Force just happened to select you — a blonde look-alike wearing Jessica’s perfume, sure reeks of a CIA set-up to me.”

He glanced over her shoulder at the flower pot hanging from the ceiling — the lens of a miniature video camera reflecting the sunset. “I am so out of here—”

She reached out and grabbed the crook of his arm as he turned to leave. “Wait. I’ve been authorized to offer you a small sum to call off your investigation… $75 million to be exact. That figure represents the amount of money you’d be saving the American taxpayer for cancelling these hearings.”

“What about the $100 billion in taxpayer monies spent annually on these so-called Unacknowledged Special Access Projects? How do you propose we save them that chunk of change?”

She forced a smile. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

“Let me take a guess… UFOs, ETs, and the advanced technologies uncovered by these illegal USAPs for the commercial gain of a group of defense contractors whose CEOs will be receiving subpoenas from my office — that sound about right to you?”

She was about to reply when she received a communiqué over her earpiece. “They want to meet you.”

“Forget it.”

“It’s important you do this… for Jessica’s sake.” Without waiting for a reply she led him out of the bedroom and down the hall to a set of double doors guarded by the two security bookends. Turning to face him, Agent Kishel brushed lint from his lapel with one hand, slipping a folded business card into his jacket pocket with the other. “These are nasty people. Don’t try to be a hero, hero… or things will turn out bad.”

Opening the door, she motioned for him to enter.

The chamber had been originally designed as a game room. Mixed in with the antique Cubs’ baseball paraphernalia, dart boards, two pool tables and three green-felt octagonal card tables, was a large flat screen television and six smaller monitors which occupied one entire wall. The high ceiling was buttressed in a dark-stained oak which matched the bar; the remaining three walls were covered in expensive oil paintings of plump nude women which dated back to the sixteenth century. The rest of the furnishings were ornate, the arched windows curtained in cherry-red drapes, the scent of cigar smoke and age embedded in the heavy fabric.

The caterer had set up eight rectangular aluminum serving dishes which held hot entrees on two long folding tables. A third table displayed the remains of what had been an assortment of desserts.

Seated around a white linen-covered dining table were a dozen Council members representing the inner circle of the group formerly known as Majestic-12. All were Caucasian and male; the youngest was in his mid-forties, the oldest pushing eighty-five. Half had served in either the Armed Forces or the intelligence community; a few had crossed into politics. Of the six businessmen, two were American, one was English. The Scandinavian owned a private bank; the Australian was an engineer; the Russian an industrialist with ties to the KGB. Though they hailed from different backgrounds and countries, they were all billionaires who preferred to operate their empires from the shadows.

Four of the men were hardliners who were convinced that the only sensible solution to the planet’s diminishing resources was to eliminate the middle class while systematically reducing the world’s population.

The youngest member of the group — an American CEO — looked up at Adam Shariak with a Cheshire-cat smile. “Under Secretary Shariak… so nice of you to join us. You must be hungry; make yourself a plate.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“You seem a bit uptight. How about a drink… or perhaps a lady of the evening? Our clients downstairs are enjoying the local talent but I’ve got a few Asian delights stashed in one of the upstairs bedrooms for our VIPs.”

“I think I’ll pass, but it’s nice to see you’re in such good spirits, Mr. Laskowski. I look forward to questioning you before Congress.”

“And I look forward to pleading the fifth.”

A few of the men laughed.

The Russian stomped out his cigar. “There is reason we wished to meet you. We have heard you are man of strong character, da?”

“You’d have to define character to me, Comrade.”

“For me this means family-first.”

Adam felt a sweat bead trickle down his armpit. “Whose family?”

“Yours, of course,” said the lanky white-haired Englishman. “There’s your stepbrother, Senator Hall, and of course… your fiancée. She’s lobbied hard for us to bring you in.”

They’re lying…

“Oh, and just to clarify… the $75 million Agent Kishel mentioned on the balcony is merely a fee for ending your witch hunt. The starting salary is $36 million a year, plus perks — one of which is that you would be able to work with Dr. Marulli.”

“So that’s a $75 million signing bonus and $3 million a month for selling my soul. Just one quick question before I exercise my strong character and tell you to go fuck yourselves — what exactly is it that you people do?”

“We provide… balance,” the tan, fit-looking Scandinavian replied. “Think of us as a western-leaning think tank possessing extraordinary influence. When the world slips off-kilter, we have the means to right the ship.”

“Provided the ship runs on diesel fuel… yes?”

The younger American stood and applauded. “Bravo. In one short sentence you’ve managed to demonstrate your complete ignorance of world affairs. Gentlemen, I give you our new Under Secretary of Peace and Love. I’m sure we’ll all sleep better with Mr. Shariak installed as our newest non-voting member of Council.”

“Actually Mr. Laskowski, it’s Captain Shariak. And while you and your rich pals have apparently been manipulating dictators and armies like pieces on a chessboard, grunts like me have witnessed first-hand the death and destruction your narcissistic decisions have wrought upon the masses.”

“Save that lecture for the obstructionists occupying Capitol Hill. And for the record, our interests do serve the masses.”

“If that’s true, gentlemen, then prove it to me right now, and I’ll reconsider your offer.”

“How can we prove it,” the Australian asked.

“Climate change is destroying Mother Earth like a metastatic cancer. Take a vote right now on phasing out fossil fuels over the next three years by introducing zero-point-energy into the public domain. Leave a legacy that saves our planet… do the right thing, and I’ll do whatever I can to support you.”

A heavy silence fell over the chamber. The six men in favor of Adam’s proposal quickly identified themselves by leaning back in their chairs and offering supportive glances while the three individuals who opposed his request — the Russian, the older American businessman, and the Brit seemed clearly perturbed by the Under Secretary’s audacity even to ask.

And yet the other three men appeared unsure. The Aussie was clearly mulling it over, his hazel eyes intensely focused on the table top, while the gray-haired former National Security Advisor seated directly across the table from him was embattled in his own internal struggle.

And then there was Laskowski. The youngest member of the billionaires’ boys club seemed like a deer caught in headlights — the headlights being the hawkish gray eyes of the older American staring down at him from the opposite end of the table.

He was frail and pale and in his eighties, his receding hairline covered in liver spots. Stooped over from scoliosis, the old man’s aura nevertheless weighed heavily in the chamber like a black hole, his presence clearly affecting Laskowski, who circled the dessert table, helping himself to a slice of chocolate cake as he attempted to regain his composure. “Upending the free markets would cause chaos, Mr. Shariak, and chaos is not in the best interests of the masses.”

“Did the personal computer cause chaos? Did the iPhone? Zero-point-energy could be phased in like any other new technology and the free markets would respond in a positive way.”

“One day, perhaps. Not today.”

“Not today?” Adam glanced around the room. “How many todays do you think we have left? Surely some of you have children and grandchildren? Don’t they deserve a planet where the air can actually be breathed? Step up to the plate, gentlemen… do the right thing. Or is it more important to allow your oil oligarch pals downstairs to suck every last drop of oil out of the ground? For God’s sake, how many billions of dollars do you people need?”

The Aussie looked up… he was about to speak—

— when the old man slammed both palms on the table. “How dare you insult the Eternal Father and His Son — our Lord and Savior — by speaking of money! It is only through the atonement of Christ than mankind shall be saved and not by employing an energy device invented by the devil. This man — this heathen — is not a member of Council; nor should he ever be. He has not accepted Jesus Christ into his heart; he does not believe in the restoration of the ten tribes or that Zion, the New Jerusalem shall be erected on American soil. When the minions of Satan are vanquished from the skies, then Christ shall reign. Then and only then shall Mother Earth be renewed and mankind shall bask in all His glory.”

The man stood, his face a mask of hatred as he pointed a calloused index finger at the Under Secretary of Defense. “Leave our sanctuary… now!”

Adam glanced around the table, tallying the averted expressions. Exiting through the double doors, he pushed his way past the two security goons and Agent Kishel as he retrieved his iPhone from his jacket pocket. Gripping the rail of the grand staircase with his right hand, he speed-dialed with his left, the heel of the shoe of his prosthetic leg nearly twisting off as he hurriedly descended the narrow steps.

“Meet me out front in thirty seconds; I’m done here.”

29

Jessica sat up in the hospital bed as the attendant wheeled in her lunch, replacing the cart which still held her breakfast. Lifting the plastic cover, he saw that she hadn’t eaten a thing.

“Ms. Marulli, if you don’t eat then how do you expect Dr. Spencer to discharge you?”

“I’ve been here six days which is five too many. Today starts Day 1 of a hunger strike.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

She looked up as the Canadian-born physician entered her room, accompanied by his wife, a registered nurse.

Like most of the medical staff serving MAJI’s subterranean complexes, Dr. Ken Spencer had begun his career in the military. He had met his wife, Robbin, during the first Gulf War, the couple returning to Alberta where they opened a private medical clinic. But once a year they reported to the complex outside Edwards Air Force Base where they were whisked by Maglev train to one of the secret subterranean complexes — the six week rotation tripling both of their annual salaries.

“Good afternoon, Jessica. And how are we feeling today?”

“My head feels better, my left forearm’s slightly sore from where that asshole tasered me last week. Other than that, I’m fine.”

The physician inspected the quarter-size welt along her biceps where he had been ordered to implant the tracking device. “Give it another day; I’m sure it’ll feel better by then. The good news is that you passed your concussion protocol.”

“Does that mean I’m free to leave?”

“Just give Nurse Robbin a few minutes to remove your I.V.”

Lydia Gagnon watched her friend’s daughter from behind the one-way glass, her skin crawling from the presence of the sociopath who had just entered the viewing area.

Colonel Alexander Johnston’s crystal-blue eyes glittered beneath the fluorescent light, the soft pink flesh covering his bony cheeks yielding to the silver-white whiskers of a five o’clock shadow. The man known as Dr. Death smelled of baby powder and formaldehyde, the scent coming from his hands and the frayed sleeves of his black turtleneck sweater.

General Thomas Cubit gagged at the stench. “Christ, Colonel — this is a medical facility, not a morgue. There’s a new invention… maybe you heard of it — it’s called soap.”

“Why are you here?”

“Dr. Marulli serves under my command. I will not allow you to subject her to your psychotronic mind control.”

“She’s a security risk.”

“She is not a risk,” Lydia shot back. “Mr. Mull tested her and she refused to comply, returning the ZPE device to the lab.”

“Mr. Mull isn’t convinced and neither am I. Her activity in the Hive the night she witnessed the ARV is very suspicious.”

“That’s only because the two of you are paranoid schizophrenics,” General Cubit said. “I’m releasing her, and I’m taking her off probation, allowing her full access to the facility.”

Alexander Johnston turned to him, speaking through clenched yellow teeth. “You’re making a mistake.”

“And you’re outvoted,” Lydia said.

With a grunt that sounded like a wounded animal’s growl, Colonel Johnston turned for the door, kicking a wastepaper basket on his way out.

Lydia ran her sweaty palms across her lab coat. “I despise that man. What do you think he had the doc inject into her arm?”

I don’t know, but the more active she is, the quicker it will pass.”

“What happened with Shariak?”

Cubit smiled. “They tried to bribe him and he turned it around. If the old man hadn’t tossed him out there would have been a sea-change in the inner ring.”

“That’s why Dr. Death’s on the war path.”

“Yes, and you can bet the hardliners won’t go quietly into the night.”

Senator Randy Hall, Chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, sat back in his desk chair and re-read the list of names his brother had prepared for the first week of hearings.

“Adam, who the hell are these people? I don’t see a defense contractor’s name among them.”

“I’m saving the CEOs for week two. Week one are scientists and members of the Armed Forces who can attest to the existence of the Unacknowledged Special Access Projects we’re investigating.”

“If they haven’t received money from the treasury, then their testimony is irrelevant. I told you I wasn’t going to allow you to waste the Appropriations Committee’s time.”

“First, this is a joint hearing and I’m riding shotgun. Second, every defense contractor we call upon to answer questions about these illegal black ops projects is either going to deny they exist or plead the fifth. By calling these witnesses first and establishing that these USAPs exist, taking the fifth will seem more of an admission of guilt instead of an action to protect a top-secret weapons system.”

“I assume these people have high security clearances… how are you going to get them to violate their national security oaths in order to come forward and testify?”

“You prepare the subpoenas and let me worry about that.”