Groom Lake (28 page)

Jasmine drove the Durango while I tried to nap in the passenger seat, but our first stop came within twenty miles when she exited the interstate and detoured several miles on a rural road to a horse farm—apparently you can rent horses the same as you can cars. I’m not big on horses, but Jasmine insisted it would make the first leg of our trek easier and faster.

With steeds in tow, we traveled on highways for about two and a half hours before turning onto a county road that took us ever further from populated areas. I couldn’t help but stare at the remote farm houses we passed, or entrances to farms—I couldn’t always see the buildings—and wonder about the people living in this area. Some wanted their privacy, a fact reinforced when they used the term compound instead of ranch to describe their property. And while I don’t have empirical data to offer, I am of the strong opinion that an individual owning a compound probably has a weapons cache to protect said compound. Jasmine was of the same opinion, and thought it critical not to trespass on these grounds during our journey. Technically we had to trespass to reach our ultimate destination, but she just didn’t want any trouble in the earlier stages.

One problem the government encountered at Groom Lake, and a key factor in blowing the decades of secrecy, was that some of the surrounding land was ranch land. And when the ranchers started seeing strange lights in the sky, they called people. Compound owners, however, would be less apt to call people under similar circumstances. Another reason Utah was a more suitable location for a secret air base.

Jasmine’s plans were quite detailed, and obviously devised with insight from satellite surveillance and other Chinese intelligence documents. We traveled to a point where the road neared national forest land. Jasmine stopped several times, looking at satellite photos that showed clearings just off the main road, large enough to park the SUV and trailer, but hidden from passersby. The first two sites proved unsuitable to pull the trailer off-road, but the third site Jasmine had specked out served our purpose.

Jasmine downshifted into a low, four-wheel drive gear and eased the Durango from the shoulder to pristine terrain. Some ruts jostled the trailer as we began to drive into the forest and I heard a whinny from one of the horses. I’m sure this was a violation of the rental agreement, for both the vehicle and the horses, but Jasmine knew what she was doing, managing the wheel with relaxed austerity, and I didn’t foresee any trouble coming from this task.

Upon parking, I stepped from the vehicle into a calm, high-sixties afternoon that featured puffy cotton-like cumulus clouds dotting a blue sky. Jasmine had been studying the weather patterns and tried to time the trip so atmospheric conditions would not hinder our journey. Weeks earlier and we might have been marching those horses through snowpack. I guess weather prediction is another thing we can say the Chinese intelligence agents are good at—certainly better than the bozo weathermen in LA who can’t confirm rain until some imbecile slips on wet pavement. Good weather or not, we were still anticipating a nighttime temperature in the forties, and Jasmine had the appropriate sleeping bags, jackets and camping supplies to get us through the cold. As we were unloading the gear from the back of the Durango, the horses suddenly seemed like a good idea. I just wondered who would be carrying the brunt of the load once we left the horses, and thought about myself dragging the bags through the airport.

Jasmine was fearless in her quest—no sign of nerves or indecisiveness in her actions. During my recent years of staring at the television for much of the day, I once watched a program on prison inmates that discussed the psychological makeup of lawbreakers, and a genetically based lack of fear was what allowed them to operate in situations that made most people unnerved.

With the Durango and horse trailer covered under camouflage tarps, we mounted the horses and disappeared into the woods with Jasmine and her horse leading the way. My horse’s name was Snow because of his mostly white coloring, but I called him Beacon because you could see me riding him a mile away. At least Jasmine had a brown horse; she was the one that needed to stay out of site. What could the government do to me at this point that it hadn’t already done? Jail would be less humiliating than being in my forties and living with my mom.

The elevation when we started was somewhere around 6,000 feet. This region was an extension of the Rocky Mountains, a wooded area, unlike the high desert and Joshua Tree Cacti of Area 51. We would be traveling to higher elevations, but Jasmine said she plotted our course to stay in valleys and cross divides at their lowest point. Otherwise the high altitudes would make our trek on foot difficult, if not impossible.

Utah has about nine million acres of National Forest, and in 2001, with White House backing, the National Forest Service initiated a Roadless Plan that prohibited the building of new roads, and in turn limited access, development and logging of remote areas—perfect timing for those developing a secret military installation and using the remote land as a buffer.

Jasmine and I were not violating any laws at this point as we road the horses deep into primeval aspen and spruce forests, rich with deer and high-altitude lakes. So although hunting, fishing and camping were allowed, the chance of us seeing someone was about as remote as the land we were on. (Please take note that in the description above I’m talking about the North American quaking aspen with coarse toothed leaves that tremble in the slightest wind—a little fact I learned while reading one of Jasmine’s travel guides on Utah, and I wanted to mention so if you’re struggling to comprehend the discussions of mind control or moon missions, you can at least finish this story believing at least one fact.)

We camped the first night with pup tents and a roaring fire, luxury conditions we could only enjoy on the national forest land. Jasmine woke me at dawn and we saddled up. She used a GPS to guide us, and we blazed our own trail, pushing the horses hard, with only enough rest to keep them going. Our journey was dusk to dawn and traversed a path of nearly thirty-four miles up and down mountainsides, across plains and through streams and small rivers.

We slept in past dawn the second day, not needing as many hours to reach our next destination. I made sure the horses were securely tied to ropes that allowed them to roam far enough to eat grass and sip from a stream. Our larger duffels we hung from a tree to keep them out of reach of curious animals.

Jasmine and I set out on foot, each of us toting a small pack with minimal provisions. We carried canteens, but packing large quantities of water wasn’t an issue because there were ample amounts available along the way that we could purify with tablets. We brought food in the form of freeze-dried meals, sleeping bags and a camouflage tarp to sleep or hide under, and we each had a camouflage poncho. The plan was to walk part of the day and lay up until nightfall as we neared the perimeter of the military property.

I don’t know how far we hiked, but let’s say it was a hundred miles because that is what it felt like. I certainly wasn’t in shape to be doing what we were doing. I started off sore from riding the horse and the pain only got worse as my feet ached, blistered and begged me to stop. In reality, we had hiked about seven miles by mid-afternoon. We setup a makeshift camp and rested until dark.

Jasmine said we were about a mile from what she suspected was the base perimeter. As I stated before, we were headed to a government facility, but it wasn’t noted in land records or maps as military property the way other bases and installations were. This was government-controlled land, but managed in part through third party corporations and trusts, which held the titles.

Shortly after sunset, with little rest, we gathered our belongings and started hiking again. There were no signs or fences marking our transition from the national forest land to private land, but Jasmine was watching her GPS device closely, tracking our coordinates, and soon became more critical of our surroundings. She was starting and stopping with greater frequency, continually telling me to wait, stop, and be still, while she scanned ahead and peered through the various sets of binoculars and monitoring equipment she had stowed in her pack and hunting vest.

Jasmine figured we would walk through the night and spend the next day sleeping under our tarp. Hiding was much easier in the forest compared to her ordeal sneaking around the desert at Groom Lake, but we had to get through the night first before we could worry about keeping ourselves hidden during the day. Her intention was to make it out of the valley we were currently in by climbing to a ridge before sunrise and setup camp with a view to the next valley.

I decided it was time to have some fun with Jasmine and began talking so she could hear me up ahead. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

Immediately she turned with a crazed look on her face. “What are you doing?” she hissed in a harsh whisper. “Be quiet!”

I knew precisely what I was doing, and exactly where we were. I hadn’t been there before, but studied it on a map. I knew the names of the valleys and mountains we were surrounded by. I knew the base was beyond the next valley, and I knew what was on top of the ridge in front of us.

I smiled and said, “Keep going, we’re almost to the top.”

She was a bit confused by my remarks, but shrugged it off and kept hiking. We stopped atop the ridge, which flattened out and sprawled several hundred yards before it dipped into the next valley.

“What were you saying back there?” Jasmine asked between sips from a water bottle.

I didn’t reply. Instead I just stood in silence—waiting.

A branch broke to our right. Jasmine dropped to her knees and pulled me down with her, fumbling for her night vision glasses.

“Beijing,” I said, “we have a problem.”

A radio squawked to our left. In the distance up ahead, a light beamed upwards from the valley below. Then a helicopter could be heard rumbling, the source of the light.

Jasmine punched my chest in anger. “I rescued you,” she said with a betrayed look on her face.

A red laser appeared on her chest, then two, five, ten, bushes rattled and feet scuffed in every direction as soldiers emerged from their ambush positions and methodically closed in around us. Jasmine could do nothing but sit still.

Obviously I haven’t presented certain facts to you in linear sequence, but I think I have made it quite clear my mind hasn’t worked in a linear fashion in over a decade, and I am certified by the government as an imbecile if I may be so direct as to ignore politically correct jargon. My point is that Jasmine was a little more successful in accessing my memories than I let her, or you, know. One memory she triggered is what a devout patriot I was.

The helicopter landed in the distance ahead, its lights illuminating a cloud of dust from its rotors that rolled in like a bank of fog. From the haze, two silhouettes emerged, one man, one woman, but not in battle fatigues like the soldiers; their uniforms were dark suits.

“Wormmeister,” Damien Owens said, addressing me in his patentable raspy voice, and using the subliminal codename Jasmine had given me.

“Hello, Copernicus,” I answered, eyeballing Jasmine.

I guess I failed to mention that in between visits with Jasmine, I was seeing Damien Owens. Don’t be too offended, Jasmine was equally in the dark before this moment, but the dour expression on her face revealed she was processing thoughts, realizing that I remembered a little more than I shared with her, remembered enough to discern her actions were wrong.

Owens brushed Jasmine’s face. “It’s been many years. I always knew our situation with China would escalate. Your country has the greatest need for our technologies. But I never expected to see you again, Yee Yang,” he said, using her real name, or at least her documented name when she first entered the country in the nineties. “You’ve matured well, both in beauty and knowledge. You’ve also taught me a valuable lesson: I can’t return spies to their home country.”

I didn’t take another step further ahead, never saw into the next valley, and certainly was not taken to the new base. I was close, but the exact whereabouts are still unknown to me. Federal agents could have easily arrested Jasmine before our journey to Utah, but this was a test. Owens wanted to learn how much the Chinese understood about the location of the new base, and determine if the moon war was upon us. Unfortunately Jasmine had proven the Chinese knew quite a bit.

Before we parted that night, Owens reached in his pocket and retrieved the small gray rock he enjoyed caressing with his thumb. “This is my good luck charm,” he said. “You gave it to me over ten years ago, Ben. I want you to keep it now as a thank you, an apology, and a pledge that we’ll get your life back on track.”

I vaguely remember giving it to him, but he didn’t have to explain any further: I knew a moon rock when I saw one.

In the years following the Utah incident, Damien Owens kept in contact and helped me to rebuild my past. A stark change from the Damien Owens who discarded me years earlier, but does he care about my future or am I still just a pawn in the government’s latest plan? Maybe a little of both, as it was Owens who encouraged my story to be told, this story. Instead of secrecy at all costs, dissemination seems to be the new trend. Owens also provided me with briefings that helped explain about the others in this story, their roles, destinies, and the outcome of the fate stew I mentioned in my introduction. Owens even handpicked the author, Bryan O, my intermediary, who made three pilgrimages to Area 51 in the early nineties that etched his license plates and name into the intelligence databases, and warranted further attention when he applied for a background check to get clearance for a tour of the Nevada Test Site in 1996.

My true identity was withheld for the sole purpose of keeping me safe from the Chinese, as I still possess information they want. Jasmine was just one of many determined MSS agents that live among us.

You probably have some lingering questions about the other individuals in my story—the FBI task force, Trace Helms, Blake Hunter—let’s just say if they read this book, they might not realize they were reading about themselves.

As for deep space travel—did I ever traverse a wormhole? I’d like to think I did, but there are a few of my mental possessions the government still possesses. Maybe the Chinese could have enabled me to consciously remember that information had I continued cooperating with Jasmine, but I’m not so selfish I would sellout to a foreign threat for a few memories. If it did happen, I hope to recall it before I die; if not, I’m sure we’ll evolve to the point that it no longer needs to be classified, and hopefully at that time I’ll be given credit as a pioneering explorer, remembered as we remember Columbus, even if it is awarded posthumously.

The events I have presented transpired in 1994 and 2004; the Nobel Prize in physics for 1996 and 2003 were related to advances in helium-3. More cases of the public catching up with America’s shadow programs. Just think how much further along the shadow programs are today, how much helium-3 has been stockpiled, what is being done with it, or what could be done with it?

Owens and his confidantes did not rescue me from my dilemma; the Chinese did that, but Owens did seize the opportunity to use me as a change agent. My situation did not spark any new ideas. A comprehensive plan called Project Meshing was already in motion, and the timing of my situation was one more story Project Meshing could exploit.

So there you have it—believe it or not—the bizarre story of the Wormmeister. I hope I have at least stimulated some thoughts that will lead readers to conduct their own research. In parting, I leave you with a note from Damien Owens—he insisted on the last word.

Sincerely,

XXXXX XXXXX

a.k.a. Ben Skyles

www.thewormmeister.com