Blackstar, p.7
BlackStar, page 7
“It’s more than just mating them. They have to essentially be a one unit. The core must be milled to exact tolerances to have a consistently strong field in all segments of the grid,” the other said.
“My God. You’re exactly right. We need to start over and develop a model that has perfect symmetry and alignment. Then we can decide the best way to direct the energy flow with the nozzles. I think you’ve hit a breakthrough,” he said and slapped his fellow scientist on the back.
“Now all we have to do is figure out how to achieve that small detail.”
~~
Nine levels below the main level where the two scientists worked on the flying disk, another team of scientists were at work on an entirely different project. These people had badges that said:
ULTRA SECRET
Level–9 Clearance
The select few working almost 1000 feet below the surface were engaged in a project that only a handful knew existed. The badges were not even correct. They were actually working on level ten but no one but them and General Devin even knew the level existed. Officially only nine levels existed so they had badges that implied that they worked on Level-9.
Not even the President of the United States knew what was being developed here. It was so shrouded in secret that it never showed up on the National Budget. The money was filtered through an intricate labyrinth of military projects that was almost impossible to trace. Most of the money was earmarked for the projects taking place in the upper levels but Devin had devised an untraceable way of skimming off money to fund this own project.
“How are we doing?” General Devin asked.
“Good. Good. The initial tests are very positive. Within a few more months I believe we will have this thing up and running.”
“I would be happier if it were a few more weeks,” the General said gruffly.
Having to pussyfoot around with scientists was not a thing he enjoyed. They were a necessary evil at this point.
“Now general, we have talked about this before. If we are going to make this thing work, we need the proper time to test it,” Doctor Gimbel said.
Gimbel was a tall lanky man with thinning hair. His right eye had a constant twitch that Devin found most annoying. He constantly chewed at his fingernails, another thing the general found discussing. The only real redeeming characteristic that General Devin could find was that he was brilliant. The design and every detail was the result of Dr. Gimbel’s ability to grasp the potential of what could be done with this new weapon.
He was the one who actually approached the general with the concept of making such a device. Devin had immediately latched on to the potential and from that point on it was just a matter of setting everything into motion.
“Haste makes waste,” Gimbel said.
The general didn’t say anything; he just chomped down harder on his unlit cigar.
“Very well, I want a status report delivered to my office by 0800 tomorrow,” he said.
It was an unnecessary command; he always had a report on his desk the following morning at 0800. He just needed to remind them who was in charge around here. The scientist didn’t reply either. He knew it was just another case of military ego. He had seen it many times before when he was employed as the youngest member to work in Area 25.
Little known, Area 25 was where project Nuclear Engine Rocket Vehicle Application (NERVA) was taking place. They were working on building a sixteen story tall rocket ship, called the Orion, to send astronauts to Mars. The project was finally cancelled when it was determined that if the rocket happened to blow up while on the launch pad, plutonium would be spread into the atmosphere.
The military brass was considered a meddlesome pain in the ass by his group of scientists. However, without them the funding for research such as this would be totally impossible. It didn’t cost much to placate their disproportionate egos. He waited for the general to stomp out, acting important before he spoke to his assistant, “What an egotistical jerk.”
“Have a report on my desk by 0800,” his assistant said, mimicking the general.
“Little boys must act important. I think that posturing is his way of covering up for the small military equipment he carries around.” They both chuckled before returning to the task at hand.
Today they were trying to align the proton generator so that it interfaced with the center of the Fluidity Field. It had to be in exact alignment within .00012 of an inch. If the proton stream touched the fluidity field the explosion would evaporate a ten mile area a thousand feet deep.
“Ready?” he said, taking a deep breath, “Let’s see if we can get this thing aligned.”
He knew there was no use worrying about it, if he made a mistake, he would never have a chance to realize it.
For the last two years the project, once started on Level–9, had been moved to a new facility at Level–10. No one except the team working on the project was even supposed to know it existed. Great care had been taken to ensure that none of the other scientists above Level–8 were ever allowed to go any further.
Gimbel and his team had been working on a weapon that would have the power to obliterate anything in its designated target range. Once they were able to obtain enough Element-115, they immediately set to work on expanding the research from how to make the alien craft work to the development of a weapon that would bring any country that attacked the US to its knees with the push of a button.
General Devin, without approval from anyone, had bluffed and threatened his way into control. He had clandestinely recruited several of his most trusted friends, using national security as the carrot stick, into joining the project. Only he knew that this was not an authorized project by any agency of the United States Government.
His position as base commander for Nellis Gunnery Range and the Data Repository Establishment And Maintenance Land (Dreamland) gave him access to everything he needed.
General Devin had been selected to be in charge of the Nellis Range in 2010 and was given access to everything that was going on at the base. His exposure to the alien craft and the strange creature, J–Rod, had unnerved him to his very core.
If these creatures could come to earth at will, when would they decide to take over the planet? Didn’t anyone realize the potential danger to the human race? The more he learned, the more he became convinced that the world as he knew it was in peril.
They seemed placid enough now, but how could we really know their intent? The limited communication, still after all these years, was no indication of their ultimate plan. Why would they just pop in and disappear again? If they were truly peaceful, why abduct citizens of the US and other countries? He was convinced that something else was going on.
He had argued time and time again with the Pentagon about the potential threat of invasion from another planet but they discarded his warnings. He was considered somewhat of a crackpot by most of the senior officers.
That didn’t stop Devin. Once he had access to everything going on at Area 51 and S–4 he became obsessed with creating a means of defending against any invasion.
The longer he was in charge, the more obsessed he became. So much so that he had added the tenth level. Only the scientists that he personally selected were given access to Level-10. Like Oppenheimer, Enrico Fermi and all of the other brilliant scientists who worked on the Manhattan Project, the creation of the first atomic bomb, they became caught up in the potential good that could come out of this new power.
It could produce enough energy that no country would ever have to be dependent on oil again, farm lands could be reclaimed and millions of other potential benefits could be derived from the use of Element-115.
Every President since Truman had been briefed on the projects going on inside S-4 and was aware of the Majestic 12 and its function. All correspondence about this group was classified ULTRA TOP SECRET – MJ–12.
It wasn’t until Clinton came into office that the time was right for General Devin to implement his own plan. Clinton’s attitude toward the military created dissention in the military. Few, if any, respected him as Commander-in-Chief and most thought he was unfit to fulfill the role.
He was a loose cannon and at stake was the security of the country. To Devin this was a clear signal that something had to be done. Clinton never bothered with the projects taking place at S-4 so Devin was able to establish his own project without anyone knowing.
In talking with the scientists he realized that the materials used for travel by frame-dragging could create previously unobtainable energy. He soon started formulating his plan. The first thing he did was set up the network to siphon money from the pulse detonation project or PDP, as those working on the project referred to it.
Level-10 stood empty at the time Devin took over but once he learned of its existence he realized it would be the perfect place to hide the weapon he has going to build. Slowly he was able to find just the right mix of military and scientific minds to begin building a new energy source that would change the world like nothing before.
Dr. Webber, a typical egghead was just the right man for the job he decided. It was easy to convinced Webber that even the splitting of the atom would pale in comparison. With each passing year, Devin was slipping further and further from being a rational thinking military man into a dictator who believed that he was immune from the insanity taking place in the rest of the world. He was sure that it was he alone who could lay the foundation for creating a better world.
Since Level-9 was known by almost everyone it soon became apparent even more stringent security plans were going to have to be implemented. That is when Devin decided an ultra-secret tenth level was needed. While Level-10 was being readied for the ultimate project that Devin had envisioned, the most elaborate security devices were installed.
Everything that could be packed into the tunnel was in place and redundant systems installed. The freight elevator that took scientist down to the various levels, referred to by those that rode it as the UC, for up-chuck, because of the way your stomach reacted to the speed of the descent, showed only nine levels.
A specially embedded chip in the badges was necessary to access the new level. Once the doors opened, every movement was monitored by sound, voice, vibration, motion detectors, and laser beams. A mouse could not slip through the maze of security devices.
RTC, or rapid transit cars, took the scientists from the elevator non-stop to the blast doors that secured the laboratory deep under the earth’s protective surface.
While the project was initially started by Dr. Webster it had made only slight progress in the first year. Devin realized that a change was needed. Discreet inquiries were made to locate a replacement and the name of Dr. Gimbel soon came to his attention. This presented a minor problem. How would he get Dr. Webster out of the picture and still protect the integrity of the BlackStar project? Easing him out would not be an option and simply having him sworn to secrecy did not seem viable.
There were too many temptations to leak information about such a revolutionary new source of energy. Devin decided that there was only one sure way to maintain the security he demanded.
Dr. Webster was going to present a paper on Anti-Matter and Its Implications in Santa Domingo, Dominican Republic later that month. Devin set into motion a plan that ensured that no one would find out about the BlackStar project.
After visiting friends in New York for a few days, Doctor Webster boarded American Airlines flight 800 leaving from JFK International Airport. Webster boarded with 245 other passengers. The flight departed at 9:17 a.m. and headed out over the Jamaican Bay area just southeast of New York City.
A few minutes later the massive Boeing 747 exploded into a giant fireball and came crashing down near Rockaway Freeway and the Atlantic Ocean. All 246 people onboard, along with nine others on the ground were killed. Dr. Webster was no longer a threat to the security of the BlackStar project.
Dr. Gimbel became the new head of the team and almost immediately Devin could see not only better morale, but substantial progress. He still considered him to be another egghead with not enough common sense to come out of the rain but that didn’t matter if it resulted in the expedient delivery of the finished project.
Now they were getting close. Only a year more and they should be totally ready. Maybe sooner, if everything fell into place. He was pleased with the progress but was determined not to show it around Gimbel. He might ease up if he began to feel too secure. One thing the general knew for sure was that people worked better when they were subjected to pressure.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- STRIKE-1 TRAINING –
- 6 Months later -
The air was perfectly still as if someone had shut it off at the source. That was making the job much more difficult. Miller, still known only as 24B to his teammates, knew that all the care and time that had gone into making his ghillie suit wouldn’t do him much good unless a slight breeze came up. He had been lying in the same spot for over an hour. Any movement would give his position away in an instant. He slowly raised his head and could see his target but it was still more than a mile away.
He knew he could get lucky from this distance but it wasn’t worth the chance. He peeked at his watch and saw that he still had at least three more hours of daylight. After that the light would be flat and the shot would become more difficult. He could wait and try for a night shot but he would have to get within seven or eight hundred yards for that. It would lessen his chance for escape but it could be done.
For now all he could do was wait in the hot sun and hope the wind picked up. He lowered his head back down and could smell the earth as he lay there trying not to move a muscle.
Staying in the same spot for hours is not as simple as it sounds, especially under a hot sun and lying on the hard ground. Flies would land on his sweat covered face but he wasn’t going to risk trying to brush them away. This was a critical exercise for him. He had been successful in five others and so had three of his competitors for the number 24 slot on Strike–1 team. This one was considerably more challenging. The shooter had to locate the target, get into position without detection, make the kill, and escape.
Each of the three remaining contestants had twelve hours to complete the mission. Miller felt very confident as he located the target but as the day wore on and the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the wind had died down so that none of the field grass was moving.
To get into a comfortable firing position to assure a kill, he needed to be no more than a mile from his objective. He was just a little over halfway when the air no longer rustled the tops of the weeds. Any movement he made would stand out immediately and he would be spotted. He slowly reached into one of his pockets and took out the small spotting scope. He could see the judges looking through powerful binoculars, trying to find them before they could get off a shot.
The four judges were sitting on a raised platform, under an awning. A large cooler sat on a table nearby. Miller licked his lips. His last drink of water had been warm and anything but refreshing. He took his knife from the sheath and a small orange from his side pocket. He sliced it in half and bit down on it slowly and sucked the juices down his throat. It was better than the water. Suddenly he heard shouting. He looked through the scope again and he could see the Judges all looking in his direction. How could they have spotted him? Did the movement of getting the orange out of his pocket give his position away? He watched as three men came running across the field. They had spread out and seemed to be coming straight for him. There was nothing he could do except lie still and hope they couldn’t find him.
He could hear them getting closer as they ran through the tall grass. He buried his face and waited. One man ran just to the right of him about five yards away, still going at a good pace. Another ran to his left, even closer. He could hear him talking into his walkie-talkie. All three went past him. He lay, frozen to the spot.
Something had sent them out here. A few minutes later he could hear them walking back his way. Again they walked past him and he slowly raised his head. Now there were three of them left. They had spotted candidate 24D. He was walking dejectedly between the men. He must have been coming in from the same direction but had somehow made a mistake.
Miller raised the scope to his eye and could see the judges all talking; none were looking through their binoculars. Now was his chance. He started slowly moving forward, keeping the spotters and 24D between him and the judges. He was able to travel almost five hundred yards before he felt he had pressed his luck as far as possible. He dropped down and looked through the scope. 24D was getting a big drink of water and the judges were starting to take up the hunt again.
The diversion had allowed him to get within 1200 yards of his target. He could make the shot from here but if he could get down to a 1000 meters he knew his chances would improve drastically. He could wait; time was now on his side.
He crept forward another fifty yards, inching his way along. He looked up and saw one of the men looking in his direction again. Had he pressed his luck too far? All four judges were now looking in his direction. It seemed like a lifetime before one by one they turned their attention elsewhere. He resolved himself not to move again until the wind picked up. He waited.
One hour passed then another before a slight breeze started to come down through the valley. Just a little more he thought and I could move. Within a few minutes, the wind had picked up sufficiently that he felt it was time.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he inched his way forward, timing his movements with the wind. He checked the distance, 1050 yards. The grass was starting to thin out. This is where he would have to take his shot from. He inched his Barrett M107 .50 Caliber rifle through the grass. Even with its 31 pounds of weight and almost 57 inch length, it was rock steady on the tripod. He flipped up the lenses cover on the Leupold 24X Mil dot fixed scope and focused on the target. The range finder said 1048.5 yards.
