Operation Indigo Sky Read online

  "They're part of a community which includes current and past intelligence operatives who are sympathetic to the cause."

  "And knowing those kinds of people, you want to hire me?"

  Dr. Killian smiled, though not as scornfully as did his daughter. "These people can't perform any open investigation – not without drawing the immediate attention of their superiors. You have the advantage of being an unknown quantity."

  "For now," I said.

  "Yes." His smile faded. "For now."

  "Any ideas about how I should approach this investigation?"

  "After reading the paper, we can discuss that. And incidentally, as long as you're in the area, you're more than welcome to stay here."

  "Thank you. And thank you for this." I placed a hand on the cash-stuffed envelope. "I'm surprised you keep that much cash on hand."

  "Well, I think it's a good idea to keep a sizable chunk of money outside of our government's clutches."

  "I remember your article about how the IRS seized one of your bank accounts. They accused you of 'structuring,' if I remember right."

  "You do. That was a painful lesson. I eventually got that money back, after a year and several thousand in lawyer's fees. Now I've made my assets somewhat less difficult to locate."

  "I hear you." I was starting to worry what I'd do with my new cash infusion. "Would you mind if I read this now?"

  "I wish you would," said Markus. "I'm going to go for a walk while the temperature's still below boiling. Please make yourself at home. I'll see you in an hour or two."

  "Sounds good."

  Dr. Killian walked off, looking dapper in his green jogging suit. His daughter finished off her bottle of Evian, watching me with skeptical blue eyes. I gathered my loot and the paper, and headed outside. I settled down in a patio chair facing the pool and mountains and started reading.

  The report began by summarizing popular hypotheses, focusing on the one I knew most about – the idea that a continuity of government base had been built under the airport which linked up with other underground bases through tunnels. Despite the dryness of the style, it made some pretty fantastic claims. Twenty square miles of living quarters running down eight levels – each level capable of housing a small city! I'd heard such fantastic claims before, but they hadn't been accompanied by detailed to-scale renderings. The story got even more interesting as it described a matrix of tunnels leading away from the underground complex to dozens of underground bases throughout the United States, including a nearby septic treatment plant and Cheyenne Mountain Complex a hundred miles south of us in Colorado Springs. Though the writer was careful to note that he or she had no proof, everything was based on "reasonably rigorously vetted sources" inside the intelligence community and the bases themselves.

  The paper highlighted several promising points of entry in Arizona and New Mexico. Entrances outside military bases were often camouflaged by mining operations or rock and sand quarries. A few were in abandoned landfills or closed-down factories. Most of them were a fair distance from civilization. A few individuals, including two hired by Markus and his group, had approached the hypothetical sites in day and darkness, and in all cases armed men in jeeps or helicopters had swooped in and, informing the investigators they were trespassing on private property, escorted them in a forced march out of the area. When asked, they claimed to be employees of a private security firm.

  That hardly proved a massive complex of underground bases existed, but it demonstrated that the places they visited were more than they pretended to be.

  After an hour, I reached the end of the twenty-page paper. I dropped the manuscript on the table beside me and leaned back in the lounge chair, letting the sun warm my weary brain through my closed eyelids. My world had shifted in the last few days, and I felt like I needed to play catch-up with my new reality.

  A shadow blocked the sun. I opened one eye. Lilith stood over me, her head eclipsing the sun, dark sunglasses covering her eyes.

  "It was that boring?" she asked.

  "No," I said. "Just collecting my thoughts." I sat up, resisting an urge to finger-comb my short hair. "Have you read this?"

  "I've read all my dad's papers. Both conspiratorial and scientific." She smiled with her usual edge. "I even read some of your articles. I can see why my dad was glad to hear from you."

  "My posts were that good?"

  "They didn't completely suck. You were obviously straining for the same professorial style that comes naturally to my father."

  I felt my chest muscles clenching, and consciously relaxed them. Women and their "negs." I wasn't about to lose my cool over that.

  "Is that what you're 'straining for' in all your academic pursuits?"

  Her smile flickered for an instant before resuming with a harder edge. "Good one. But I have my own style."

  I removed my sunglasses from my front shirt pocket and slipped them on. As much as I wanted to deny it, Lilith was one of the most gorgeous, magnetic women I'd ever seen. Even with my MGTOW red pill antidote, I was struggling to hold onto my male dignity.

  "Having read this paper," I said, "how would you go about investigating these alleged underground bases?"

  "I'd get one of the workers drunk and then get him to spill his guts."

  Chapter 3

  MAYBE I DIDN'T GET out much, but the Denver International Airport was the weirdest airport I'd ever seen, starting with the blue nightmare horse the locals called "Blucifer" rearing up in front of the main entrance. It resembled a horse named Diablo on my parents' property outside Sacramento – a big, black stallion that had thrown, bitten, and slammed me against a fence before I'd wised up and stayed clear of him. I was convinced it wanted to kill me. The airport's blue equine mascot made Diablo seem about as vicious as a Shetland pony. I'd read that it was supposed to represent the "wild spirit of the west." This thing, if it ever broke free of its mooring, might trample the entire west.

  Inside, it reminded me more of a huge shopping mall than an airport: big open spaces filled with stores, restaurants, and bars, along with gargoyles and the infamous Salvador Dali on LSD murals. Railway tracks suspended in the air. A granite plaque dedicated to the Freemasons and the "New World Airport Commission." I purchased the cheapest ticket I could find (one-way to Las Vegas for $167) so I'd have a boarding pass and access to the secure areas. Markus and company might be paying the tab, but I wanted to do what I could to keep expenses down.

  I wandered amongst the sparse Monday crowds, impressed despite the hypothetical ghostly presence of Illuminati devil-spawn. Eyeing the murals, I found it hard to understand why airport designers would choose controversial nightmare images as part of the decor. It did feel like some form of strange subliminal message was being conveyed.

  After walking through most of the unsecured area, my awareness of the unusual furnishings faded and I started noticing more relevant things, such as how the airport employees - many of them Hispanic – moved freely between secure and non-secure areas. If I got a badge and I.D., I might be afforded the same privilege. They probably wouldn't be able to get anywhere near sensitive areas, but you never knew. It might not hurt my chances that I could speak okay Spanish. If I darkened my skin and slouched a little to minimize my six-one height, maybe I could join the ranks of the anonymous workers.

  I had a light lunch – still digesting the morning's feast – and worked a few odd hours with my laptop to send Caldera a last bit of programming. My software life already seemed blasé. I was eager to start playing at being 007.

  As it approached five, close to the time of my flight to Las Vegas which I wouldn't be catching, I retired to the outside parking lot and watched for people who looked like employees. I didn't have any better idea than to follow someone home and tell them I'd been hired by the airport to test security and would reward - monetarily – any help they'd care to offer. I had my new identity card as an employee of Intelligence Services International to persuade them. I didn't rate my prospects as high, but it
was a shot.

  As cars and people streamed out of the airport, my plan seemed more and more pathetic. Then a van rolled by stuffed with what appeared to be Mexicans – the lean-faced driver sporting a goatee and spiky black hair much like mine – and I started the car and drove after them without thinking.

  Tailing someone was yet another skill I wasn't practiced in. When we'd tailed people in Iraq and Afghanistan it had usually been with the idea of catching up to them and killing them. Not a lot of subtlety. But I managed to stay with the van without any aggressive maneuvering as we headed into the outskirts of Denver.

  I followed them into an older neighborhood that wasn't horrible but could've used a makeover. I parked back a few cars and hunched down in my pickup, wishing I were driving a smaller, less conspicuous vehicle. But the three guys and two women got out and entered a house without even a glance in my direction.

  Now it was time to put my dodgy plan into motion. In the past few days we'd learned that Denver International Airport did in fact commission a security firm, Intelligence Services International, to test their security. We had no idea if those tests were ongoing, but we agreed it was my best cover. Markus had his people create my new identity, which included an Intelligence Services International employee card, work background, and Colorado driver's license. I'd chosen the name "Scott Harrow" from this super-cool dude in my junior high. How dorky was that?

  I climbed out of my pickup, rehearsing my introduction on my way to the house. Loud "jelly bean" music – what I'd come to call the festive Mexican music that dominated certain Phoenix neighborhoods – shook the front door as I approached.

  I rang the doorbell, and when there was no response, escalated immediately to a hard "cop-knock." The music died and anxious footsteps approached. The door inched open and a young man peered out, worry shining in his dark brown eyes. I noted that he was roughly my height and build with features not grossly far off from my own. Nice-looking dude.

  "Hi," I said.

  "Hello." I watched his Adam's apple bob. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm hoping you can."

  "Are you from immigration?"

  "No." I smiled. "It's about your job at the airport."

  "You are with airport security?"

  I hadn't expected that question, but I saw the opportunity to get in the door.

  "Yes," I said. "I wonder if we could talk for un momento?"

  "About what? Is there problem?"

  "Don't worry, you haven't done anything wrong. It's about a special program – an opportunity for you to serve your airport and make some extra money."

  His eyes brightened at the last words. "Okay. Pase, por favor."

  Inside, the odor of frying hamburger wafted out from the kitchen. An older woman huddled with two young kids on a threadbare couch in the living room. Her eyes bulged with anxiety as I entered. A message was silently exchanged between her and my doppelganger, and the woman rose, dragging the two girls out of the room.

  The Hispanic dude sat down, fingering his close-cropped goatee, wariness creeping into his dark eyes. I settled down on the couch beside him, smiling, keeping my body relaxed and confident.

  "I'm Scott Harrow." I offered my hand. "I'm with Intelligence Services International. We're a private firm hired by airports to test their security."

  The man dipped his head in a doubtful nod and lightly grasped my hand. "I am Carlos."

  "Nice to meet you. What was you last name?"

  "Santos."

  "Have you heard of Services International? Do you know that major airports are being tested by undercover agents?"

  "No, I did not know this. And I do not understand why you are here."

  Suspicion had eclipsed wariness in his eyes.

  "I know this is a surprise," I said. "To put it simply, I'm being paid by the airport to break through airport security using any method I choose" – I made myself grin – "as long as no one's harmed, of course. All I do is get inside and then report to my superiors. I'm here because my plan is to trade places with an employee and see if anyone even notices. Does that make sense?"

  "You want trade places with me?"

  "I chose you because we have some basic physical resemblances."

  "Will I not lose my job?"

  "Not at all. The city of Denver hired my firm. They want to know how secure their airport is. You'd be doing them a great favor." His expression relaxed but he wasn't sold. "And of course you'll be paid for working with us."

  He brightened a little, but his eyes remained skeptical. "How much pay?"

  "That's negotiable."

  I doubted money would be a problem, but the whole thing could go south if his bosses or co-workers knew him too well.

  "Do you deal directly with your bosses?" I asked. "How well do they and everyone else know you?"

  "I report to Ramón," he said. "Our team leader. Only he, my wife, and cousins here know me."

  Hmmm. Maybe this pathetic scheme had a small chance of working.

  "What do you do at the airport?" I asked.

  "Maintenance and cleaning."

  "Where?"

  "All areas."

  "The lower levels?"

  "Si."

  "Recently?"

  "Fourth level dos dias pasados."

  Fourth level two days ago . It seemed that as he got more nervous – or excited? – Carlos reverted to more Spanish.

  "What are you scheduled for this week?"

  "Ramón knows. I do not."

  "Would you mind giving me his number? I'd need to talk to him."

  Carlos's eyes narrowed. Resistance was in the air. I kept waiting for him to demand identification or some support for my story, and the only reason I could think of that he hadn't was an initial intimidation factor – some mysterious white guy who might represent authority. But that mantle was wearing thin.

  I dug out my wallet and handed him my International Security Services employee card and my driver's license. His body relaxed. To preserve my positive momentum, I laid out two one hundred dollar bills on the coffee table by the couch. Carlos cleared his throat. I brought out my cell and raised my eyebrows at him.

  He spoke the phone number for "Ramon" under his breath. I asked him for Ramón's last name, which he provided in the same begrudging mumble.

  "Gracias," I said. "I'm going to talk to Ramón, and then see what we can work out. As I said, you will be well-compensated."

  Carlos responded with a frown and a non-committal nod.

  Over the phone, Ramón was more skeptical than Carlos. I barely got one sentence out when he was demanding proof of who I was. I cut the conversation short with promises to meet and explain everything while emphasizing the tidy sum of money waiting for him if he joined the program.

  Later, Markus Killian listened with an amused half-smile when I described my afternoon.

  "Just let me know if it will be over a few thousand, though I'm fairly certain we can gain the cooperation of the two key employees with less than that."

  "I'll give it my best shot."

  Chapter 4

  I MET WITH RAMON Mendez and Carlos Santos three days later. Ramon inspected my Intelligence Services International employee card and Colorado driver's license with cursory interest. Their enthusiasm picked up as I counted out fifteen crisp one hundred dollar bills – offering $750 to each. The two men exchanged calculating looks.

  "One thousand each, por favor," said Ramón with a determined jaw.

  I pretended to be reluctant. I frowned at the small stack of bills on the coffee table as if they were my life's blood. I released a lugubrious sigh.

  "Okay," I said. "My boss isn't going to like it, but if that's what it takes. However, in that case, I'll need to ask for two days on the job instead of one."

  That condition drew uneasy looks from the two men, but as I counted out the extra five hundred dollars, their reluctance softened. I offered my hand, and we shook on it.

  Ramón and Carlos spent the next two hours de
scribing their work in halting English punctuated by frequent bursts of Spanish. I got the general idea. They cleaned stuff and occasionally assisted in maintenance and repair. Carlos was fairly mechanical. I wasn't, but I was sure I could manage with Ramón hovering close by as my protector.

  So it was, two days later, that I found myself passing through an employee security entrance without so much as a glance from two nearby TSA agents, and catching the elevator down four flights to the assigned work level. I'd grown out a short goatee and cut my hair in spikes a la Carlos, and spent several grueling hours at the Killian poolside darkening my complexion while researching the Denver Airport, refreshing my Spanish, and supervising Lilith's late-afternoon lap-swimming.

  Now my adopted work group rode down with me in the elevator. With Ramon in my pocket, and surrounded by Carlos's family members, I was effectively insulated from the rest of the workforce. To our white bosses, I was just another Mexican. God knew we all looked pretty much alike.

  On the fourth floor, a dude in a green work suit consulted with Ramón. Our job would be oiling and cleaning baggage transport equipment. After Green Suit departed, I rolled my cleaning cart away from the others back into the elevator. As I pressed the sixth level button I half-expected some alarm to go off and security people to rush in, but the elevator descended without protest.

  I rolled out into the cool, semi-lit spookiness of the sixth sublevel. It was like a parking garage with its broad lanes and concrete walls. A parking garage fused into a bomb shelter and maybe some humongous car wash. A spider web of steel girders supported a Cretan maze of conveyer belts that some believed had been custom-designed for transporting bodies. Neon lights flickered uneasily overhead.

  My first impression that the place was abandoned and in disrepair was soon contradicted by the crisp, clean smell of the air and the cleanliness of the floors and walls. Someone wasn't letting this level go to shit.

  Then a rat scampered across my path. Spoke too soon . On the plus side, I was alone. My only plan was to feign ignorance if someone stopped me. My singular goal was to find a door or entrance to elsewhere. Legend had it that there was a door labeled "BE64B" somewhere beneath the United Airlines terminal which opened to a secret tunnel that led to an underground military base. But even if that door existed, surely they would've camouflaged it or renamed it by now? Not that I had any idea where I was relative to United Airlines or anywhere else in the airport.