“So, where are they now?”
“They didn’t work out here long. Once the Aurora missions ramped up, there was too much exhaust and fuel vapor in the hangar to work out. That and the pilots themselves became more busy. They only worked out here on downtime and during the months of testing and diagnostics.”
“Can I help you guys with anything?” A Security Force airmen manning the bank of monitors turned and asked Hal. Henry removed a light meter from a leather pouch on his belt and pretended to eye the monitors through it.
“No, sir,” Henry replied. “We’re just checking the luminance and video quality of the monitors. Just a spot check. We’ll be outta’ your hair soon.”
Hal and Henry noticed the entourage leaving Hangar 302. The Vice President’s motorcade snaked around the back of the hangar. The VP shook hands with the wing commander and other officers before stepping into his Escalade limousine.
Henry and Hal showed themselves out of the surveillance booth and made their way through the Security Force office. Once outside, Henry said, “They didn’t find anything.”
“How do you know?”
“Nobody left in handcuffs.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
NO GO
Hal took a pull from the straw of a soda cup he got from the base commissary earlier. He had spiked it with coffee at the base, shielding the cup with his body from any surveillance cameras or prying eyes in the cafeteria. He opened his sparsely-stocked fridge looking for something to eat. The only light in his entire house shone from the refrigerator.
This was the fourth night of his routine — drinking coffee-laced soda and going to bed at the same time as usual, following the same regimen. Staying awake long enough to find out what happens when they summon him to the hangar. The first night, he thought he could meditate his way through the long hours of pretending to sleep. After meditating for what felt like an hour, he snuck a peak at his alarm clock and only fifteen minutes had passed. Time to come up with another plan. Hal toughed it out that night. The previous two nights and tonight, he listened to an earbud plugged into a small transistor radio hidden in his pillow. Believing he was being watched from every room in the house, he had thrown his bedding and a pair of shoes in the laundry. While the shoes were knocking around in the dryer, he taped the tiny radio to a pillow and wrapped it with the case. Then, at night with his head on the pillow and arms snuggled around it for comfort, he closed his eyes and stealthily turned the radio on. Carefully putting the earbud in. His radio program of choice — Chris Plante political talk radio.
Hal’s thoughts drowned out the rambling voices as he wondered how many nights he would have to do this. Are they on to me? Have I been pulled from their project, or has it been shut down entirely?
Hal’s hyperactive caffeine-drugged mind turned to the entourage of top brass at the base. McCreary wasn’t a surprise because of his knowledge of the drone video, but Trest and the wing commander? Are they all in on it? Judging by the shit-hitting-fan demeanor of the Vice President, Hal presumed he or the President may not have even known about the black op. He pondered the entire project for another hour. How long had it been going on? Who all was involved? Is it only Holloman or are other bases and facilities around the world involved? It occurred to Hal that if he let his mind wander down this path the first few nights, he wouldn’t need the radio-in-pillow sleep breaker.
The glowing green numbers of his digital alarm clock flicked to 1:00 a.m. Hal was fast asleep. He gave himself a midnight cut-off. If they hadn’t summoned him by then, it probably wasn’t happening. And then he heard a pattering of bright, tinny, electronic tones that slowly pulled his mind from deep sleep. The electronic tones morphed into that of his cell phone ringtone. He opened a lazy eye and glanced up at his nightstand, angling the screen toward him. The caller’s name — Uncle Hank. He quickly answered, fearing Henry was in some kind of trouble.
“Sorry to call you so late, buddy,” Henry said. “You should come over here. Now.”
“Why? Wha—” Henry’s line cut off. Hal realized it was intentional. Henry didn’t want to say too much.
Hal threw on some clothes, trying not to eye the ceiling corners and other places cameras might be. Expecting that they were watching him now and are probably wondering where he was going in the middle of the night.
Henry’s garage was open, revealing his truck, but nobody else inside. Hal’s truck pulled in as if he was the one who opened the door via remote. Hal reached under the seat for his sidearm, an AF issued M9A1 Beretta. He snapped the smooth slide back, readying a bullet in the chamber. Hal approached the door to the mudroom in an urban combat profile, prepared to clear it of threats. He snapped the door open, stepped in and surveyed the small room. Hal gripped the door handle to the house and threw it open, his nine raised in the Low Ready position, forty-five degrees up from the floor, finding that he had it trained between the feet of Henry and Jenny.
“What’a you doing?” Henry asked in an accusatory tone. Making Hal seem like he’d gone crazy.
Hal exhaled with relief, holstering his sidearm. “You sounded intense on the phone. I didn’t know what to expect.” Hal opened the door to the mudroom and set his 9mm on the washing machine.
Henry’s eyebrows furled. Mystified how Hal drew that conclusion. “Well, come on in. We have something to show you.”
Hal followed them down the handful of steps to the sunken living room. He noticed a 1980s VHS machine on the floor with cables running up to the flat screen TV. “What’d I miss? Did you find your old porn stash?” Uncle Hank laughed. Jenny… not so much.
“Naw,” Henry said, “I’ve already converted that to digital.”
“I’m sure you have, Mister High-Tech.”
Jenny turned to the couch behind her, lifting a cardboard banker’s box from it. “I went to the office last night…” She opened the box to Hal. “…and found this…” Inside were half a dozen VHS tapes with handwritten labels. “Dr. Elm’s sleepwalking research.”
Hal eyed it, intrigued. “What have you seen so far?”
“Nothing,” Henry replied. “I called you when Jenny arrived. Took me a while to find my old VCR and cables in storage. Are the tapes numbered?”
Jenny read the prescription-like scrawl on the labels. “No, but they’re labeled by date. Here’s the first one.”
Henry popped it into the VCR and the warbling, distorted video started, showing the blurry arm of Dr. Elm as he activated the video camera and stepped back to a blackboard. He had a Starsky haircut and butterfly-collar shirt from the late 70s. “This is tape one of the Somnambulism Series, and I am Dr. Stuart Elm. I have advanced the research carried out by Project MKUltra, discovering that somnambulists, or sleepwalkers, are the best candidates for mind control. The reasons are two-fold: One, the subconscious mind is very powerful — about a million times more powerful than the conscious mind and it controls ninety-five percent of our behavior. The second reason derives from the first, sleepwalkers are able to remain in a subconscious state longer and they are able to perform active tasks while in this state. Our challenge was to extend the sleepwalking state for several hours with no harmful side effects, and to turn off the part of the brain dealing with voluntary action… The fight or flight component of the mind. We have achieved tremendous success on both accounts. We are now able to program the subject’s mind for several hours in a sleepwalking state to do anything we command. Anything we say. Here is test subject 016G. We have already administered 100 mL injections of smn.7 and 60 mL of trazodone…”