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  There is another section of the complex—only this one cannot be found on any map.

  * * *

  The 767 jumbo jet touched down on a sand-swept tarmac surrounded by flatland. To the west, snow-capped mountains rose in the distance; to the east an unpaved access road led to a security gate—the only entrance through a ten-foot-high steel perimeter fence, the barrier topped by coils of barbed wire and outfitted with security cameras.

  The only structure in the area was a 2,000-square-foot prefabricated building concealed beneath an open-ended hangar, its camouflage-painted roof large enough to accommodate the jumbo jet which taxied to a stop beneath the flat-roofed structure. A dust-covered SUV was parked outside the building, its doors advertising Mojave Environmental Services.

  A garage door rolled open, releasing a man in overalls driving a motorized set of steps. Aligning the top of the stairs with the aircraft’s forward door, he honked twice.

  The exit swung open, releasing one of the jumbo jet’s two VIPs.

  The desert heat blasted Jessica in the face as she stepped off the 767. High overhead, the hangar roof blocked the afternoon sun—along with the cameras aboard any orbiting recon satellite. As she descended the steps she saw a tech remove her luggage from the plane’s cargo hold.

  General Cubit remained on board. He would be flying on to San Francisco for a week-long holiday with his wife in Carmel. While Cubit played golf at Pebble Beach, Jessica would be occupied with an intense seven-day orientation—assuming she accepted the directorship of a USAP.

  “It’s a security issue, Jessica. This particular project requires the director to have something called a Cosmic Clearance. The process normally takes several years to complete—your review, by the way, began eight months ago. Unfortunately, our need to complete critical work on Zeus, combined with Dr. Hopper’s unexpected departure, forces us to accelerate things quite a bit. As we speak, Council is voting on the issue. If you’re approved they’ll offer you the position, at which time you’ll be fully briefed on Zeus.”

  “How do you expect me to blindly accept a position without knowing what the job entails?”

  “Did I mention the salary?”

  “It’s never been about the money, General.”

  “You’ll receive a million a month to start.”

  Jessica felt the blood drain from her face. “Twelve million a year?”

  “Plus perks. Six weeks paid vacation, access to the best hotels in the world. You’ll be able to buy yourself a decent engagement ring.”

  She flashed him a look to kill.

  “Sorry, that was out of line. But make no mistake, this is a game-changer for you and Adam. The only caveat being that he can never know what you’re working on.”

  “Who’s paying my salary?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to the IRS. Somehow I suspect my accountant may need to be briefed.”

  “That will all be handled for you. As for the funds, they’ll be wired directly into your account on the twelfth of every month from a non-profit cancer research foundation.”

  “You mean the CIA?”

  “This is black budget research, Dr. Marulli. If you want to work on the most advanced sciences known to man you have to tell a few white lies and you also need a Cosmic Clearance. Opportunities like this are rare, even for someone possessing your talents. My gut tells me you’ll be approved by Council but they’ll want your answer the moment you enter the Cube.”

  * * *

  The two MPs were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, each Marine armed with an M-16.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Marulli. If you’ll come with us please.”

  She followed them inside the prefabricated building’s front door to a waiting room that looked like something straight out of the 1960s. The floor was black and white checkered linoleum, the walls done in fake walnut wood paneling. Framed posters, faded and yellowed with age, featured antiquated information about California’s environmental laws. Six chairs faced an unplugged RCA television set, the foam stuffing visible on the split-open worn vinyl cushions.

  An open door on the left revealed a supervisor’s office. A familiar gray-haired man dressed in a plaid shirt and worn jeans sat with his hiking boots propped atop a wooden desk. Brown eyes, magnified behind reading glasses, looked up from an issue of Sports Illustrated.

  “Dr. Marulli.”

  “Afternoon, Fred. How’s the wife?”

  “Meaner than a bobcat. I see you hitched a ride with one of the hotshots.”

  “Guess I’m moving up in the world.” She joined the two MPs who were waiting for her in the break room.

  As she stepped inside, one of the marines shut and locked the door behind her while the second guard moved to the soda vending machine, the only modern piece of apparatus in the visitor center. Inserting a credit card in the pay slot, he selected ROOT BEER.

  Internal magnetic locks snapped open, allowing the marine to slide the false outer door aside—revealing an awaiting elevator.

  Jessica stepped inside. She held on as the doors sealed.

  * * *

  The subterranean base, known as the Cube, was the only one Jessica Marulli had ever visited. She suspected Vandenberg Air Force Base had a similar underground complex, as did Groom Lake. Two years before she had worked with a loose-lipped army engineer from Riverside, California named Matthew DeVictor. In an obvious attempt to impress her, the former officer at Bechtel described operating a nuclear-powered boring machine that could drill a tunnel seven miles long in a single day.

  “We called them subterrene machines and they were massive, as long as the Space Shuttle with a diameter three times larger. On board was a compact nuclear reactor that circulated liquid lithium from the reactor core to the tunnel face, generating exterior temperatures in excess of 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s hot enough to melt rock so there’s no excavated soil or stone left to remove … no telltale evidence. As the lithium loses some of its heat, it’s circulated back along the exterior of the subterrene which cools the vitrified rock, leaving behind a smooth, finished, obsidian-like inner core—perfect for their unidirectional Maglev trains. I hear those puppies can travel at speeds in excess of 1,500 miles an hour. They have an entire underground rail system that connects one subterranean complex with the next.

  “The Bechtel Corporation has been building these underground cities for the secret government since the 1940s. At first it was a response to the Soviet’s nuclear threat, but over the last thirty years, it’s shifted into something else entirely.

  “The biggest project I ever worked on was the one located beneath Denver’s International Airport. The complex is over twenty miles in diameter and goes down eight levels. It houses the new CIA headquarters—Langley’s just a front. One of my buddies, a structural engineer named Stuart Martin, worked on and off the project for six years on account of them constantly changing construction companies in order to prevent any one particular group from knowing too much. It never bothered Stu; being one of the few structural engineers around with experience working underground, he’d just bounce from one company to the next as a freelancer. If you check out the surface area adjacent to the Denver airport, you can see these small concrete ventilation stacks that resemble mini-cooling towers. They’re spread out across the entire surface area, some of them partially hidden behind shrubs. Of course, you can’t get too close—the perimeter’s fenced in.

  “My last day on the job, I saw workers hanging Masonic symbols and bizarre murals on the walls featuring burning cities. To be honest, it scared the piss out of me. Bad enough no one knows about these facilities; to think some whacked out religious cult is involved makes it even worse. Of course, they scare the bejeezus out of you when you’re hired, letting you know in no uncertain terms that if you ever talk about anything, you’ll get the Jimmy Hoffa treatment.”

  * * *

  The elevator descended rapidly with no indication of how deep it was going. After
thirty seconds it slowed to a smooth stop, its doors opening to reveal a short Caucasian woman in her mid-forties.

  Sandy Lynn Bagwell greeted Jessica with the same southern charm she reserved for all her Zebra-level guests. “Good afternoon, Dr. Marulli. It’s been quite a while since your last visit. We’ve missed you.”

  “Thank you; it’s nice to be back.” She glanced nervously to her left where two more armed MPs were waiting.

  “Dr. Marulli, come with us.”

  Jessica followed the two men down a wide white-tiled corridor, its walls papered in navy blue. They stopped at the first door on the left—a knobless steel barrier with a built-in security device.

  One of the guards slid his identification card in the slot, causing a magnetic bolt to activate. “In you go.”

  Jessica pushed the door open, her hands shaking.

  She jumped as the guard slammed it shut behind her, extinguishing the corridor light, leaving her in complete darkness.

  “Hello?”

  She was afraid to move, unable to see her hand in front of her face.

  “Is there a reason you have me standing in the dark?”

  Her pulse raced, her breaths turning rapid and shallow as her anxiety rose.

  Stay calm … they’re testing you.

  “Stay calm … they’re testing you.”

  The voice was female but not her own, nor was it human—its cadence computer generated.

  “You can read my thoughts?”

  No response.

  You can read my thoughts?

  We can do many things. Telepathy is the most efficient method of communication, don’t you agree, Dr. Marulli?

  The voice was male, this time human.

  Telepathy may be efficient, but how does one function without the ability to filter every inner thought from the rest of the world?

  What thoughts would you filter? Another male telepath asked. Feelings of anger? Hatred? Lust? The desire to hurt another?

  Or perhaps the need to deceive? A human female voice suggested.

  Jessica felt off-balance and vulnerable, afraid to think. The effect of the darkness magnified her fear, penetrating every fiber of her being, reducing her to nothingness … to an unutterable thought.

  A primal urge saved her from the madness.

  I have to pee.

  No response.

  I said I have to pee. Since you can read my thoughts you know I’m not attempting to deceive you. You can either guide me to the nearest toilet or I’ll pull down my pants and piss on your damn floor.

  A light appeared, revealing a bathroom and giving the chamber depth.

  She made her way slowly across the room, her eyes gathering as much information as she could, her fingers counting each stride.

  Entering the bathroom she pulled the door shut, dropped her pants and sat down on the toilet.

  Seven fingers … about fifteen to twenty feet from the bathroom to the exit. Circular chamber, the walls composed of some kind of dark, porous material, which means they probably can’t read my thoughts outside of this room.

  Can you?

  Hello?

  She smiled to herself. I wonder how long they’ll allow me to sit here before they lose patience and have to send someone in to get me?

  She glanced up at the door, its interior knob equipped with a lock. Reaching for it, she pushed the center button in.

  Jessica relieved her bladder. When she was finished, she pulled up her pants and flushed, then lowered the toilet’s lid and sat, waiting for her hosts to make the next move.

  After a minute the lights flickered on and off.

  Come on, guys. You’ll have to do better than that.

  “If you are finished,” the female voice spoke out loud, “please join us in the chamber.”

  “So you can play more head games with me? I don’t think so. I came here of my own free will to do a job. I didn’t ask to be promoted, but if this is the way you treat your Cosmic Clearance candidates you can count me out.”

  “Dr. Marulli, this is Paul Sova. We met several years ago at Lockheed Martin. Do you remember me?”

  “You worked with my mother.”

  “And now I’d like to work with you. You have my word—no more head games.”

  Jessica exited the bathroom.

  The chamber was lit, revealing an oval conference table situated at the center of the circular room. Twelve chairs were occupied by ten men and two women. A vacant thirteenth chair was positioned on Paul Sova’s left. The tall, dark-haired rocket scientist from North Dakota waved her over, his hazel eyes failing to reflect the ceiling lights.

  He’s a hologram … they all are. General Cubit’s presence at the far side of the table confirmed her theory.

  “You are quite right, Dr. Marulli,” Dr. Sova said, still tuned into her thoughts. “We are joining you from all across the globe.”

  Jessica glanced around the table. With the exception of Paul Sova and the general, none of the facial features of the other ten virtual attendees were in focus.

  “Who are you people?”

  “We serve on Council’s selection committee,” one of the men replied, his voice distinctly Australian. “You have been approved for promotion in the science and technology sector.”

  “There are four sectors, Dr. Marulli,” said a man in a white lab coat, his dialect revealing his nationality to be Chinese. “Besides science and technology, there are representatives of the military, business and commerce, and security.”

  Jessica rubbed her eyes, the blurred faces of the holograms giving her a headache. “I’m a little confused. Who is Council? What do you do?”

  The image of Paul Sova smiled. “Essentially, we run the world.”

  Part 2

  “… The stories I have heard from these people, who are more highly qualified than me to talk about UFOs, leave me in no doubt that aliens have already visited Earth. When I learned that aliens really do exist, I wasn’t too surprised. But what did shock me when I started investigating extraterrestrial reports a decade ago is the extent to which the proof has been hushed up.”

  —Astronaut Edgar Mitchell, Ph.D.

  Sixth person to walk on the moon.

  “Yes, aliens really are out there, says the man on the moon.”

  —Anonymous

  The People [a London Newspaper], October 25, 1998

  EVALUATION REPORT—FALL SEMESTER

  Michael Andrew Sutterfield

  SS #711-19-0878

  GVP Unit: PA-762-32443

  AGE: 13 years, 1 week

  GRADE: 7

  SEX: Male

  ACADEMICS:

  Student has made acceptable progress in mathematics, language arts, history, and the sciences. Student demonstrates an aptitude in quantum physics and expresses a desire for space travel.

  SOCIAL SKILLS:

  No racial, anti-Semitic, or other human prejudices demonstrated toward GVP instructors during the student’s first semester.

  NEURO-BEHAVIOR PREDICTORS:

  A flat line in neuro-synaptic activity was detected during Phase-III of the Risch-Avery protocol, indicating potential sociopathic tendencies. Series S-1 through S-6 will be added to the curriculum and student retested in twelve weeks.

  North Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  October 17, 2032

  “Today’s lesson is on consciousness. Mr. Sutterfield, are you listening?”

  Michael Andrew Sutterfield glanced at his new instructor. He estimated Joseph Williams to be in his early thirties. Half black, half Irish, bald and heavy-set, Michael found the man and his habit of posing questions he already knew the answers to be quite annoying. He wondered if the system had generated the character just to agitate him.

  “You know I’m listening. It’s just you and me in this pod.”

  “What was I speaking about?”

  “Consciousness, what else?”

  “The topic annoys you?”

  “When will I be ready for CE-5 training?”<
br />
  “An understanding of consciousness is a prerequisite for CE-5 training. Consciousness goes hand-in-hand when communicating with our ET delegates.”

  Michael sat up. “Okay, teach me.”

  The interior of the GVP-5000 transformed into a two-man vessel, Michael’s instructor strapped in next to him. One moment they were looking up at a brilliant blue sky, the next they were hurtling into a black velvet tapestry sparkling with a billion stars.

  “Sweet!”

  “I’m guessing this is your first simulated flight into space?”

  “If you know it’s my first simulation, why ask?”

  “Perhaps I am attempting to simulate conversation?”

  They continued soaring out into space until the Earth was centered in the forward view screen.

  “The universe is not only teeming with a multiplicity of intelligent life both in the physical and spiritual realm, Mr. Sutterfield, but the universe itself is a living, intelligent entity. One of the great fears the religious community had about disclosing the existence of other intelligent non-human species is that it would challenge the established religious dogmas. In fact we’ve learned that there is a unified singularity that runs through all existence—a pure cosmic consciousness that confirms God is absolutely part of the equation and we are all bound to it and to one another. And yet there is also separation, good and evil, the physical universe and the spiritual.

  “To 21st century humans, the existence of non-human species that are far older and far more advanced than us was initially made frightening by the taboos the covert government had assigned to extraterrestrial vehicle sightings. While some of these civilizations may be tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of years older than ours, there are also those that are millions of years more advanced. These species have evolved to exist outside of the physical realm, their appearances conjuring labels of angels and avatars.”