ut that kind of equity is vulnerable, especially when it is confronted by the most powerful forces on the planet.

But that was then, and this is now.

HAARP - Neverending.doc.

By Dan Eden

So what I am going to write about is something that happened here at Viewzone about four years ago. We have all known about it and it has been eating away inside our guts like an undigested bean burrito. Finally, the time is pregnant to let it out, despite the danger. So here goes.

The Winter Gets Colder

We started Viewzone in 1996. The internet was young and we were ignorant. At first we published stories and articles that were based on our own interests, mainly for our friends. In 1997, owner Gary Vey learned how to access the statistics for the web site and shocked us all by reporting the we had a readership of about 150,000 people a month. Hell, that couldn't be right - could it?

By the early part of 1998 we were receiving manuscripts and e-mails with story ideas and our readership had climbed to over one-million monthly readers. That was truly amazing and it opened our eyes to the power of the internet.

At the time, the television show "X-Files," with topics about UFO's and weird science, was at the top of the charts. So were shows like "Sightings" and "The Unexplained." We rode on this popularity with a similar venue and we were all caught up in the seemingly endless unresolved phenomena that was all around us. It was fun writing about aliens, the "face" on Mars and suppressed history. We got literally hundreds of e-mails a day, mostly positive, and a good supply of story idea. It was a magazine editor's dream come true.

One evening I got a phone call. I just happened to be in Viewzone's Connecticut office because a cold and icy storm had made driving home impossible. The caller asked for me by name and the connection was faint and wrought with static.

The caller asked me to please listen to him for a minute or two while he said what he had to say and asked that I not interrupt him. He had a nervous voice and I pictured him to be in his late 20's. I agreed and pressed the phone to my ear. "Go ahead. I can hear you."

The caller said he was in Alaska. He told me that he had read Viewzone on the internet and respected what we were doing. He told me that he and a friend wanted to tell me something that I ought to write about - something that was both important and terrible, and that I wouldn't believe it unless I came to Alaska to see it for myself.

"Alaska?... But..."

"We are sending you a round trip ticket by FedEx. We will meet you and take care of everything if you agree to protect us. This is heavy stuff. I will tell you a little about it when I send the tickets. I hope I can trust you." His voice was trembling. Suddenly there was a long pause. "You still there, Dan?"

"Yes. Okay. I agree... but..." The line was dead. Was this a prank? Who would do this? I picked up the phone to relate the incident to my best friend, thinking he would get a laugh from it, but I stopped. There was something unusual in the man's voice - fear - that made me decide to wait, at least for a few days to see if some tickets arrived.

The Siberian Chill

All through the weekend I tried to dismiss the phone call as a prank. We had received all kinds of strange phone calls and mail in response to stories we ran. One man used to call, threatening to send us a letter, "containing a brown powder that will eventually kill you all..." These were idle threats by unstable people. But we also had some real threats at Viewzone, and that's what was so unsettling about this call.

A few months earlier we witnessed a bearded man, dressed in somewhat odd black attire, enter our office in great distress. He was a priest from a Russian Orthodox Church in the South of Connecticut. He too asked to be heard, and asked us to help. His voice had the same sense of urgency - fear - that I recognized in my recent caller, and his problem was quite real.

When the Soviet Union finally dissolved, the Russian Mafia created an entity in Moscow called, aptly enough, Moscow Realty. The Russian mob also formally recognized the establishment of religion, allowing the Russian citizens to belong to the recently established, ersatz "Orthodox Church of Russia."

Back in the days of Stalin, the old Russian Orthodox Church was outlawed and its clergy were massacred. Most of the Russian emigrants here in America came here to escape this repression and established thousands of little Russian Orthodox churches where they were married, had their children baptized and were eventually buried. These tiny churches grew over many generations and some were now sitting in the middle of large metropolitan areas and on land that was now worth millions of dollars.

Moscow Real Estate wanted this land, or rather the money. Systematically, and with the blind eye of the American government, they were entering these parish offices, evicting the current priest and his family, and taking control of the property to demolish the churches and sell the land. They did this by claiming to represent the "true" Orthodox Church of Russia, many of whose "clergy" were former KGB and communist atheists.

Our black clothed visitor was in this predicament. He had already been threatened with his life, and that of his family, if he did not leave the church by the end of the month. We listened to his story in disbelief. "Surely if the American government knows about this they will help!"

When he left the office it was decided that I would write the story. I did some research on the web and was shocked to learn that this was true. The usual routine began with a threat. If this was not heeded, they would drive a school bus full of comrades to the rectory, force the door open and literally displace the priest and his family by dozens of bodies that occupied his space. His personal items, furniture and religious items were thrown out of windows or put on the street, the door was locked, and the property was ultimately sold, with proceeds going to the mob's Moscow Realty.

The threats were also, periodically, carried out. Two high ranking bishops in Canada were found with bullets in their heart - a traditional KGB signature - and there was little hope for this small parish priest. Nevertheless, I wrote the story and we published it, and it did get noticed.

One evening while I was again working late, the phone rang. A man on the other end had a thick accent but I could tell that he was angry and kept saying that he was going to cut my throat and that I was going to need a surgeon. "You will not make a difference," he said. After we traded some rather descriptive insults, I hung up on him. I did not think much about the call until the Orthodox priest came again to visit, to thank me for writing the story. I told him about the call and mentioned that the caller had a rather unusual name - "Metropolitan something or other..." His face went white.

"Oh, I am so sorry for ever coming here and getting you involved in this. Please just let it stop and forget everything!"

I later learned that I had been speaking with the mob's equivalent of the Pope in America. For the next few days I was shadowed by a white Mercedes and the same car totally destroyed the car of one of our employees before fleeing the scene.

The little priest eventually left with his family and started another small church in a pre-fabricated log cabin somewhere in the Berkshires. His church was destroyed, the cemetery bull-dozed, and an apartment complex now collects rent for Moscow Realty. The mob Pope was right, I didn't make a difference.

So I recognized real fear when I heard it. But what was in Alaska? Did they have Orthodox churches there? Was this another poor priest?

"Hey, Dan, you have to sign for this." A uniformed FedEx man handed me an envelope from Fairbanks, Alaska. I would soon learn the truest meaning of fear.

The Secret of Khalua

The envelope was like a set of Russian dolls, one inside the other. The first one revealed a flight itinerary that made two stop-overs prior to landing in Fairbanks. Inside this envelope was yet another envelope that had a message written in black magic marker, "Read when you are alone."

I went to my office and peaked. Inside was a manuscript of copied, printed pages and, yes, another envelope. The papers were from a technical journal, with technical jargon, and were authored by a Dr. Bernard Eastlund. As I thumbed through it I noticed that various parts had been hi lighted with a yellow marker, but it was long and tedious and so I focused on the remaining envelope.

Inside this there was a single index card and a small tin button, the kind you bend and pin on your lapel. It was red and had three white words on it, "Khalua Is Sweet!" The card had a hand written note, "Wear the pin if we are safe."

I had the feeling something was missing. I turned the envelope upside down and shook it, but it was empty. I looked at everything for a few minutes, trying to understand what was happening, but it just made me more confused. That evening I read the technical papers, and it only added to my confusion.

Dr. Bernard Eastlund was no priest. From what I had already read, Eastlund was a genius who had devoted his life to the research of electromagnetic wave propagation. The article was much too lengthy for me to absorb, but it appeared that he had invented a process for sending energy through the air, like a radio signal, where it could be received and used like an electrical outlet. At least that was all that I could understand at the time. As I read the paper, my thoughts kept distracting me. I kept replaying the voice on the phone. What was the connection of the fear I heard with the elaborate drama that was in my hands.

The flight was only two days away. I made my plans to leave, to have someone feed my cat, and to take a digital camera and laptop with me. I had never been to Alaska before. I knew it was cold there so I packed a couple of sweaters. Everything I had managed to squeeze into a small suitcase. The return flight allowed me only four days in Alaska so my wardrobe consisted mostly of clothes I would be wearing when I left.

I shared the details of the trip with Vey. At first he tried to persuade me not to go, fearing that it was dangerous and there were, in his words, "just too many unknowns." But wasn't that really what this was all about - exploring the unknown? Eventually we both agreed that it was an acceptable risk and potentially a great adventure. We made arrangements to keep it a secret between us and I promised to call him to assure him I was safe.

The evening before I left we went to a bar. Vey ordered me a drink, a Black Russian made with vodka and Khalua. It was a nice touch and we laughed. The drink was strong, but the Khalua was sweet. I was surprised to get drunk on such a delicious concoction. It was a very un-sober reminder that some things are not what they seem.

If it were not for the hangover I had, I would probably have been consumed with fear as I boarded the jet. It was another icy day in Connecticut and there was some concern that the flight might be delayed and my connecting schedule disrupted. I hated to fly. The thought of an air accident always lurks in my nightmares. It is not so much the thought of dying, but of being aware that I am dying, of falling for several minutes before the impact, that makes my knuckles white.

"Twenty four... that's right this way and you have an isle seat." The stewardess directed me to my seat - an isle seat no less. I hated to look out of the window and even more the feeling of being wedged between other passengers. Whoever made the ticket reservations had booked me on the same isle seats for each of the two flights to Fairbanks.

The plane was almost empty. Rows of empty seats separated the dozen or so passengers. I placed my carry on bag below the seat and was reminded of the red pin I had been instructed to wear. I fished it from my shirt pocket and clipped it to my lapel. This was certainly premature, but it was something to remind me that this trip was no vacation.

The flight to Chicago was routine. The weather cleared at O'Hare and new passengers came aboard for the next leg of the flight to Seattle. A young black woman with a briefcase approached me. "Excuse me. I guess I have the window seat."

"Sure. Sorry..." I removed my coat from the adjoining seat. For the next half hour the cabin was busy with the usual activities, the peanuts and crackers, and finally the beverage cart began to make its way down the isle.

"Are you going to Seattle?" I tried to make small talk with the woman. "Yes," she replied. At first I thought she was not wanting a conversation. There was an awkward silence. I was tired and started to close my eyes.

"Would you like a drink, coffee or tea or juice?" The stewardess addressed us and handed us both a napkin.

"Would you like some Khalua?"

"What? Khalua?" I was suddenly wide awake. The black woman smiled at me. "I was just looking at your pin there."

"We have some Khalua," the stewardess sorted through her collection of small bottles, "I could made you a Black Russian."

"No. Thanks, but no. Just some coffee with milk will be cool."

"I'll have a Black Russian." The woman laughed. "I love Khalua. Are you a bartender of liquor salesman or something?"

"You mean because of the pin? No. It's a long story. A weird one too. No, I'm a writer. I'm heading up to Alaska."

"Wow. Me too. Where in Alaska?"

"Fairbanks? And you?"

"Huh. Fairbanks. Wow. That's unusual. Ever been there before?"

"No."

"My husband is there. He's in the Navy and works up there. I live in Georgia - Atlanta - so I visit him all the time. I hate it there but he's got another year. I hope you brought some warm clothes and gloves."

The remainder of our flight was pleasant. We talked about computers, music and the usual small talk. Eventually we both were silent and resting our eyes as the pilot announced our impending arrival in Seattle.

As we gathered our effects and prepared to leave the plane I wished her a pleasant trip and joked that maybe I would run into her in Fairbanks.

"You have a safe trip. It was nice speaking with you, Dan."

As I made my way to the new gate, to board my next flight to Fairbanks, I realized that I did not know the black woman's name. We had never introduced ourselves - yet she knew my name. Then the fact that she had ordered a Black Russian seemed more significant. But was I just getting paranoid?

Patent Pending: A Hint of Evil

The flight from Seattle to Fairbanks was a frightening one. Not only was the jet much smaller, an A300 Airbus, but once again I was largely empty. Once we got off the ground I asked for some coffee and a warm blanket. I was tired and cold.

When the caffeine kicked in I felt better and decided to finish reading about Dr. Eastlund. The more I read about him, the more I was amazed at his work and how it could revolutionize the world.

Eastlund's first patent (US #4,686,605) was for a "Method and Apparatus for Altering A Region In the Earth's Atmosphere, Ionosphere, And Or Magnetosphere." The patent information contained in my manuscript described the various levels of atmosphere surrounding Earth as a kind of plastic layer, made up of various molecules and having different electrical charges. Eastlund has devised a way of beaming powerful radio waves up in the air and causing these various levels of space that surrounded Earth to become "heated" and to expand - like melted plastic. This seemed like an odd thing for anyone to want to do. But as I read on, it began to make sense.

His second patent described the reflection of a second signal, using a previously "heated" ionospheric bulge, to distant locations on the Earth's surface. Interesting, I thought, but why would anyone want to do that?

Eastlund had been working with the Atlantic Richfield Company, holders of a massive reserve of natural gas under Alaska's north slope. ARCO bought Eastlund's first two patents with the understanding that this new technology would make it possible for their natural gas reserves, too expensive to be piped from Alaska, to be converted to electrical energy on the north slope, and then bounced off the heated ionosphere to customers in remote locations around the globe. Also, because Eastlund's "heaters" could elevate the Earth's ionosphere, his discovery provided the ability to control weather! Jet streams could be altered, tornadoes could be zapped and rain could be made-- anywhere and anytime-- right here and right now! This was definitely getting interesting.

But it seemed the military had other plans. Yellow hilghts marked the last several pages. The military had purchased these two patents from ARCO and had given them to Raytheon, a military contractor. So there would be no civilian use for this new technology after all. Was that it? Was this the "terrible" thing that had placed me on this cold jet, heading for icy Fairbanks? Or was there more to the story?

I slept for a while until we landed in Fairbanks. As I deplaned I made sure to transfer the red pin to the lapel of my leather jacket. I had made no plans in Fairbanks and so I was a little concerned. It was late in the evening and I was in the middle of nowhere, with no return plans for four more days. For a moment I panicked.

"Dan? Dan Eden?" I turned to meet a young man wearing a heavy hooded parka with a fur lining. With him was another man, similarly dressed and holding an insulated parka in his arms. "Here, let me take your bag. And why don't you put this on. You'll be more comfortable."

I was surprised that the man was so young. He looked like a college student. I handed his companion my small suitcase and then exchanged my leather coat for the warmer parka.

"We are going to put your coat and bag in a locker. You won't be needing anything while you are here. And we will give you the key so you can get everything when you are ready to leave. Is that okay with you, sir?"

"Sir?" I had never been called that. It immediately made me sense that there was some military component here. The green parkas began to look like government issue. All around me I could see military people, green duffel bags and men with short crew cuts.

"So who are you guys? What's this all about anyway? Are you in the military?" I had a zillion questions. We walked quickly to the lockers and my items were placed inside and I was given the key. "I have my camera and laptop in there and..."

"You won't need anything now. Just come with us. We'll take care of you. It has to be this way for now. We'll explain it all later. Let's go."

As we left the warmth of the airline terminal the cold air struck me and instantly froze my nostrils. My eyes temporarily fogged and breathing was difficult. "Damn it's cold!" A bank sign read "Welcome to Fairbanks - It's 6 degrees F." A big old Chrysler smoked up to meet us at the sidewalk and we all got in. It was warm inside and for the first time I got a good look at my hosts.

For the next three days I would come to know and trust the two men who met me at the airport. Dave, the oldest, was a tall man of 27. His friend, Jonas, was only 24 and was shorter. Jonas' sister, Nicki, the driver of the Chrysler, was 31. The interior of the car was humorous. The seats, front and back, were covered with what appeared to be white polar bear fur, and the floor was littered with old 8-track cassettes that played in the antique player that was hot wired through the dashboard. In the back, the floor had empty bottles of JD and some Rolling Rock.

As the car warmed after having the door opened, we unzipped our parkas and introduced ourselves. Dave seemed to be in charge. He began by telling me that everything he was going to show me and tell me was secret and, by telling me, he was committing a serious crime. He told me that he had been stationed in Fairbanks with the Navy and had been discharged a few months back. Jonas, who sat in the front with his sister, had also recently been discharged. His sister, who Dave described as "real good people," had come to Fairbanks on a visit and later decided to stay. Both emphasized that she had nothing to do with any of what they were going to reveal to me but that we would all be "crashing" at her apartment for the duration.

Fairbanks was a disappointment. It was a small city with wide streets and lots of bars. Despite the time, we stopped for a drink at a place called "Mecca." Nicki seemed familiar with the patrons and I learned that the JD bottles in the car were mostly from her habit.

Dave wasted no time. He asked me if I had read the material about Eastlund, if I understood it, and if I had ever heard of something he called the HAARP. Jonas was an electrician by trade, and very bright. He had been trained in the Navy and now worked for the local cable television company. He was able to explain how radio waves traveled and how Eastlund's invention worked, in a way that made it easy to understand. They both drank Rolling Rock while Nicki did shots and smiled, glassy eyed, at me.

Maybe I was over-tired or maybe I had been alone too long. Nicki was cute. She was small and petite and looked more so in her large insulated parka. She drank her shots in one swallow and banged the glass on the bar as she finished them.

"Hey, man, it's late. Let the poor guy unwind and we can do all this tomorrow. Man, you are going to see something..." Jonas was interrupted by a wave from Dave's hand. The two of them excused themselves to talk to a friend that had entered the bar, leaving me alone with Nicki.

"They're really freaked, you know." She said. "They are worried that you will rat on them. You won't do that, will you?"

"Hey. No way. This sounds important. Besides I am not one to rat on anyone. I'm a no one really. I just want to help with whatever is going on."

Nicki was drunk. She stared in my eyes, "Yeah. You look okay. You have honest eyes. I can tell." She took hold of my hand. "I love my brother. He's a good guy and he just wants someone to know about all that's going around here."

"You can trust me. Really." I tried to finish my Rolling Rock but it was already warm and I was tired. Dave and Jonas returned and announced that it was time to go. We headed to the car and then drove to a windowless apartment on top of a souvenir shop. It was Nicki's place and it was stocked with more 8-track tape players and half empty bottles of JD and wall to wall shag carpets. It smelled like the bar we had just left.

"So we'll be over fairly early. We'll get breakfast and then head up to the flats." Dave and Jonas left me with Nicki. In the background I could hear an old Jefferson Airplane tune. This was going to be interesting.

Gazing Down The Muzzle Of Death

Nicki did her best to make me feel welcome. We sat on the floor in her one huge, windowless room, and talked for about a half hour until she passed out. She had made a bed for me from her couch cushions and the whole apartment seemed to have blankets and quilts everywhere. She worked at the same bar we had visited, serving food on the weekends and filling in as a bartender.

Jonas had enlisted in the Navy when he was 18 years old. He had been stationed in Fairbanks and worked at a secret site in an area just North of Fairbanks, called Poker Flats - or just "the flats" to locals. His sister told me that he met Dave there and the two had worked on the "heater," mainly installing coax cable and doing repairs following some tests. All through her conversation she would refer to the military as "the death ray monsters." But eventually the JD got the upper hand and she closed her eyes. The Jefferson Airplanes kept looping on the 8-track and I soon followed her in a deep sleep.

It was hard to tell time without a window. Fairbanks is rather dimly illuminated in mid-winter anyway. It was Saturday by my best recollection and I woke up to the sound of Jonas who had let himself in to fetch us for breakfast while Dave kept the Chrysler running downstairs. We eventually were back at the Mecca for a huge breakfast and Dave asked me my show size, left for a while, and returned with some heavy duty boots and thick socks.

I changed in the car while we headed North to a small town called Fox. Dave and Jonas visited a friend while Nicki and I stayed warm in the car. They soon returned with some two-way radios and the keys to a storage facility just off the Elliot Highway where there were two beefy snowmobiles packed with canvas packs.

Jonas and Nicki took one snowmobile while Dave drove mine. We went East along the Chatinaka River and, at times, actually on the frozen river. The trip was long and I realized the canvas bags contained more gasoline for the return trip. As we neared our destination I could see orange markers and the familiar "Restricted Area" signs. Dave and Jonas would stop periodically, as if to get their bearings, and we soon were approaching a steep incline where the machines were switched off, covered with a canvas drop sheet, and we continued on foot.

The area was remote, yet there were signs that it was well groomed and forested. When we reached the top of a ridge I could see an enormous area below us that was covered with rows and rows of metal poles - antennae -and small silver rectangular sheds where black cables originated.

It was oddly quiet. A higher ridge in the distance seemed to quell the wind so that we were in the midst of a quiet zone. Dave let me look through his binoculars at the field of antennae. It was impressive. The entire area was at least a mile square and the number of antennae must have been in the thousands.

Dave said that this was a phased array, but Jonas explained that this was a type of antenna where the signal being sent out could be focused to a very narrow beam - like a laser - and that it was capable of emitting a signal that was billions of watts in power.

At one point I questioned why an antenna system would be buried between such high ridges. "Wouldn't that interfere with the signal?"

"Not if you're sending it straight up!" Jonas explained that this energy was used to heat a layer of the atmosphere, to cause it to bend and thicken, and that it would then be ready for the "death ray."

"Death Ray! What do you mean by that?" I was remembering what Nicki had said the previous night.

"We'll explain all that when we get back." Almost as soon as we had arrived, it was time to return. Not only was the sunlight limited to a few hours, but it was damn cold. We scurried back to the machines and filled them with more gasoline. The ride back to the shed was brutal. The temperature dropped with the diminishing sunlight and the chill put me in a kind of sleepy, hypnotic state. I almost fell off the machine because of that.

Back in the car we warmed up. Nicki's Jack Daniels made sense and I took a few stiff hits. As we waited for the Chrysler to warm up, Dave and Jonas

made their case, strong and with passion. I sat in the back seat and listened. It was terrible. And I was glad that Nicki had brought the JD.

My head was spinning in the car as we drove back to Fox to return the keys. Nicki drove while Dave and Jonas told me of their work with the Navy.

Eastlund's discovery had been taken by the military during the cold war era because it allowed microwave signals to be sent and received beyond the horizon. This fact alone allowed them to prevent its development in any humane or commercial application since it would then be available to enemy nations. But once the heater had created a sort of lens in the ionosphere, you did not have to limit your signal to radar or microwaves. Eastlund had developed the ability to send massive bursts of power - in the billions of watts range - and these could now be zapped to just about any point of the Earth. Yes, it was a death ray.

"What about the argument that it is better if America has this than, say, some other country?" I had many questions like this.

"But other countries also have it... they just can't control it because they don't have the computers needed to calculate the angles and adjust for the movement of the Earth and things like that." Dave was especially zealous in his response, "It's not about the weapon potential really - it's about what they did with it..."

Jonas interrupted. "Not yet, man. Don't lay that on him yet. Can't you see he's not ready for that yet? Look, it's bad enough that they took the idea and used it for something to kill people but just think of what it could be used for - like making it rain anywhere, ending droughts and stopping tornadoes or sending power to poor countries. It would have been a totally different world!"

He was right. I had read Eastlund's patents and it was capable of all that - and more. It held the potential to combat the El Niño. But I kept thinking about what Dave had said, "...what they did with it..."

After Fox we were back in Fairbanks and again at the Mecca. Nicki had to work and so we decided to eat and have some drinks before an early night. I decided to call back to Viewzone, to speak with Vey and let him know I was safe. I called him from the bar.

Vey was pleased to hear that I was well and safe but he asked me why I was in Fairbanks. "Huh? Because that's where the thing is..."

"No way. It's about 300 miles South of you in a place called Gakona. I looked it up on the internet. The HAARP is in Gakona and it's just an atmospheric testing thing that's open to the public and everything."

I told him what I saw, including the huge field of antennae. "Yes, they have that in Gakona and the website has pictures of it and everything. It's a big nothing, man."

I returned to the bar with a bothered look. Dave asked what was wrong but I didn't want to reveal that I had shared the story with anyone else. For a few minutes I tried to bring it up but there seemed to be no way of doing it without breaking the trust we had developed.

"Dave, your wife called. She's home already and wants you to call her." Nicki was already in her apron and serving food. I had to say something before he left and it seemed like this was the time. But before I could mention HAARP or Gakona, Dave pulled his chair closer to mine and put his arm on my shoulder.

"Dan. I feel bad about this. I haven't been up front with you about some things. I hope you understand. We're really scared about this and we don't know what we are doing really. But I have to tell you something before you find out soon anyway."

"It's about the HAARP thing in Gakona, right? It's not a weapon really. Is that what you are going to explain to me?"

"HAARP? Shit no. That's a fake decoy for the public. Everyone knows about that. They even have a web site with one of those instant cam things and a few dozen antennae. That's just a thing for show so they can say that it's all harmless and open. No way. But I do have something to confess to you... hang on, I'll be right back."

Dave went to the phone booth and returned, looking at his watch. "Nicki! Dan needs a drink. You know... a special drink." Nicki smiled. A few minutes later she arrived with some Rolling Rocks for Dave and Jonas. Then, in front of me, she placed a Black Russian. They all laughed.

"What the hell? Hey!"

"Good timing! Here she is!" Dave got up and embraced a woman who had just entered the bar. "Dan, this is my wife!" I looked up - it was the black woman from the flight to Seattle.

"Look at him! He's freaked. I'm sorry, Dan. We had to be sure you were coming alone. I hope you understand. This is my wife, Marie."

That evening we all got a little wasted. I had several Black Russians and Dave danced with his wife. Nicki and I danced and then cuddled a little before we all returned to her windowless apartment. It was good to be happy and drunk, but tomorrow they had promised to tell me the darkest secret of all.

A Friend In Need

I didn't remember much about returning to Nicki's apartment. We were all pretty drunk when we left the Mecca. When we got back it was cold inside. Nicki's heater had somehow switched off so we sat on her floor with our parkas on until we stopped seeing our breath and then she and I cuddled under the blankets to keep each other warm.

In the morning we were so comfortable that we didn't move. In fact it wasn't morning at all, but well after noon. Nicki's apartment was kind of a timeless zone anyway. The drone of the heater fan made it easy to fall in and out of sleep and I could sense that she was enjoying the intimacy.

Fairbanks was an old mining town that had a strange mix of ultra-modern technology from the presence of several military outposts and yet it retained its red-neck personality that was crude at best, sexist at its worst. I could understand its the appeal to Nicki. She was part tomboy and redneck herself, but her small frame made her vulnerable and she projected a harsh persona to guard against being hurt. I could tell that she enjoyed being held, almost as much as I enjoyed holding her. But I also knew that there were unspoken limits that I would not attempt to cross.

Jonas knocked at the door and let himself in. He told us that Dave was making arrangements for tomorrow, my last day in Fairbanks, and that he was going to spend time with me, explaining what was so "important and terrible."

Nicki made some strong coffee. It was warm inside now and we were all sitting comfortably on the floor. Jonas fumbled through a cardboard box full of papers and maps.

"Dave and I both had to take an oath that we would never talk about any of this. I don't know how far they would go if they knew we were telling you this stuff. But they are serious people. Even telling you this stuff places you in danger, but you didn't take the oath so I don't know how bad it would be for you."

"Yes. I can appreciate that," I told him, "All I can do is promise you that I will never let them know who you are or where I got the information. If there is something that could make them suspect you... well, just tell me and I will not report that part."

"Okay, man." Jonas' mood changed from serious to more relaxed. He gave me the high-five and then pulled some papers from the box.

"Dave was in the 'com'- the command center of the heater. He worked with the primary transmitter or generator. I mainly worked on the feeder lines on the farm... the antenna farm. We were both there when they bumped the power up to the max and let it blow. I mean, we went from thousands of watts to like billions! And that's when the shit hit the fan."

Jonas unfolded some graph paper with a blue trace line on it. There were several sharp peaks over the timeline and then a spike with a long plateau that was obviously off the chart. I didn't know what I was looking at but Jonas tried to make it simple.

"Look. Here is where they are heating the ionosphere - and here too. Now you can see that it is absorbing more power each time. And then here is when they switched it to max. And somewhere up here, off the paper, is when it happened. The whole ionosphere got blown out into space and made one big fucking hole."

Nicki piped in, "Those monsters! They fucked it up to play with their toy and made a hole in the sky!"

I was puzzled. "I don't get it. What are you saying here?"

"They never used that much power before so they just did it to see what would happen. Do you follow me? And when they did it kind of multiplied the power and then a huge chunk of Earth's atmosphere blew away, out into space. Gone. Poof. History." Jonas pulled another graph from the box. "Here. Look at the ultraviolet and radiation the came through right after they did it. They blew away the shield and all the radiation just came right down and zapped Earth. And look. It lasted for a long time!"

"Twice! Tell him about the other one." Nicki was getting excited. She kept peaking through the eye hole of her apartment door, then returning.

"Yeah. Like after that happened they did it again. A few months later they did it again - can you believe that? And this time they used even more power and destroyed even more of the atmosphere. We're talking about huge chunks, like thousands of miles wide!"

"Well, did anyone die or get hurt from this?" I was already trying to distance myself from the emotions I felt and began slipping into my journalistic way of thinking.

"Shit, yes. Here in Alaska there were Eskimos that were all fried and like whole herds of antelopes. But the holes also moved West and did their real harm in Siberia. But it isn't just the people it killed. It made these people and animals sick from the radiation that came from the Sun - the stuff that's usually blocked by the atmosphere - and so there have been still births and cancers and mutations. They are trying to keep it all real hushed. It's insane. And the worst part is that they are going to test it again!"

Jonas showed me the papers he collected. We spent the whole day discussing the situation. By early evening I was exhausted. Being in Nicki's windowless apartment was also disorienting.

"Oh my God, I have to get to work." Nicki suggested that we all go to the Mecca and meet Dave, who had been planning something big for the next day. When Nicki opened her apartment door it was dark outside. It was always dark in Fairbanks. Dark and cold.

More Than I Needed To Know

The drive to Mecca was getting familiar to me. I was beginning to feel like I had lived in Fairbanks for a while. When we arrived Dave and Marie were already there, sitting in a booth near the back of the bar. Nicki hurried to the kitchen to work and Jonas and I joined our friends.

"So how was your day in Fairbanks, Dan?" Marie was pretty and had a great smile.

"Dan, you know, you can thank Marie for your plane ticket. She's the bread winner now and she made this possible." Dave gave her a kiss.

"But I thought you said Dave worked for the Navy? But then I should have known there was no Navy in the middle of Alaska!" Dave motioned for me to keep my voice down. "Well?"

"The heater is run by the Office of Naval Research. They run just about everything. They are the real brains of the military anyway. It's like the ocean and the sky are all this one big firmament to them. And originally this whole thing was supposed to be for communicating with submerged submarines anyway." Dave removed a paper copy from his pocket and unfolded it and handed it to me. "Do you remember reading this? We sent you a copy with the tickets."

It was part of Eastlund's patent and described the other things that his invention could do. I remember it had been hilighted but now it had more meaning to me.

This patent described the reflective alterations of the ionosphere for such uses as "nuclear scale explosions without radiation," "power-beaming systems," "over-the-horizon radar systems," and "nuclear missile detection and destruction systems."

Eastlund's original research recognized the military uses for his discoveries. A review of his patent applications showed how this technology could be used:

...ability to put unprecedented amounts of power in Earth's atmosphere at strategic locations and to maintain the power injection level particularly if random pulsing is employed, in a manner far more precise and better controlled than heretofore accomplished by the prior art, particularly by detonation of nuclear devices of various yields at various altitudes..."

"...It is possible not only to interfere with third party communications but to take advantage of one or more such beams to carry out a communications network even though the rest of the world's communications are disrupted. Put in another way, what is used to disrupt another's communications can be employed by one knowledgeable of this invention as a communication network at the same time..."

"...large regions of the atmosphere could be lifted to an unexpectedly high altitude so that missiles encounter unexpected and unplanned drag forces with resultant destruction."

There was a somber moment while I read the report again and the significance of my Alaskan visit was again in the forefront of my mind. Nicki appeared with some drinks. I was glad she had decided to give me coffee. I was not a drinker and I guess that separated me from being a real Alaskan. We ordered some food and made small talk.

"So what do you have planned for me tomorrow?" Everyone looked at Marie.

"Well..." Marie's smile turned to a serious look. "I am going to take you to meet some friends. Do you have a camera with you?"

"No, we had him leave that in the airport. I don't think that is such a good idea since everyone knows that you are their friends..." Dave was being protective. "Don't you think that is kind of risking it?"

"Yeah. It's not necessary anyway. You will see for yourself and we can always get pictures later... Anyway, that's for tomorrow. Let's not get all depressed tonight. So how do you like Fairbanks, Dan?"

I had to lie. It was miserable here. The story was depressing and there was no sunlight. My bright moments were spent holding Nicki under the blankets in her warm apartment with the sound of the heater fan. I couldn't figure out if Nicki was really that special or if she was the only humane thing I had touched since coming to this icy world.

"It's a nice little town. I'll bet it's better in the Summer when it's warmer."

"Ha! Not really. Especially when the mosquitoes are out. There's nothing to do here. You can't fart without someone knowing it. That's why we have to be so careful." Dave was right, of course.

Too much familiarity was dangerous. I could tell he was not part of the Fairbanks click. Other patrons came in and joked with everyone and gave only glares at Dave, and his black wife. There were no blacks in Fairbanks. Perhaps she was the only one. Even Jonas and Nicki retreated to their solitary spaces if they were not working. I realized I was with outcasts, here but not really part of the scene. Somehow that was fine with me.

The more we talked, the more I liked Marie. She was older than Dave and had a Master's degree in Education. Dave hated Atlanta about as much as she hated Fairbanks and so they were waiting for Marie to find a teaching job in Washington State and they would both settle down there.

Marie was sensitive. She had worked in Fairbanks for many months with the Inuit and Eskimos. They shared much of the same racism as she had experienced and she could even speak a few words of their language. That would come into play the next day when some real faces were to be associated with the receiving end of the death ray.

A Night Visitor

The night wasn't over yet at the Mecca. While we finished eating an older man entered the bar. He was about my age and he bought cigarettes from the machine, but seemed to be looking for someone. He and I made eye contact a few times, but he always averted when I looked back at him. Eventually Jonas saw him and abruptly went to the men's room. The man followed him.

A few minutes later the man left and went outside. Jonas returned to the table and whispered something to Dave. They went back and forth until Jonas asked me to come outside with him for minute.

"Bring your parka and gloves." He was waiting for me by the door.

Outside we got into a large SUV and the man who had entered the bar was driving. We drove to a parking lot on the campus of the University of Alaska and found a space among the many parked cars and trucks, keeping the engine on to stay warm.

The driver was a friend of both Jonas and Dave. He was also in the Navy and essentially validated what I had already been told. He asked if I understood everything that I needed to know and offered to show me the site from a different perspective, if I had the time. Jonas explained that I was going to see some Eskimos tomorrow with Marie and he seemed to agree that was more important to do. He mentioned them by name. From his accent I could tell he spoke the Inuit language and, upon closer inspection of his face, I sensed he was ethnically Eskimo.

He asked Jonas where I had been taken to see the "farm," and agreed that was a good vantage to observe the installation. I was never formally introduced to this man, but he knew my name. That was how it was supposed to be.

Later, when he drove us back to the bar, he had a beer and ignored us for a while, then left alone. Jonas told me he worked in the "con" - control center of the heater - and that he had arranged for the snowmobiles we used the previous day.

It began to snow for the first time while we were in the bar. It made Fairbanks look more picturesque and the fresh layer of white reflected more ambient light, making the town seem brighter and happier. Nicki appeared and announced she had gotten off work early and suggested we go back to her apartment. The others declined but agreed to meet at the bar in the morning. Marie would be taking us to meet her friends then.

Nicki and I returned to her apartment. For once it was warm - almost too hot. She lit a candle on the floor and dimmed the lights. I heard "Hey Jude" begin to play in the background on the 8-track and she sat across from me with an old scrimshaw box.

"I take it you smoke?" She smiled at me, waiting for my response. I was amazed. I did, of course, but the idea of finding any marijuana in Alaska was so remote... but I was wrong.

My smile gave me away and she opened the box to reveal some familiar and attractive buds - the good stuff - and then stuffed a bowl in a small pipe that appeared to be made from bone.

Nicki was the best thing that had happened to me in Alaska. We smoked a few bowls and then played different tapes and talked. I could sense the same barrier that prevented any physical intimacy beyond holding her. But even that was special and substantial. The candle was burned up by the time we both fell asleep under an Eskimo blanket.

I slept like a log that night. In the morning Nicki awoke before me and made coffee. I pretended to be asleep and was touched when she got under the blanket with me again and lightly kissed my cheek. It had been years since I felt such a connection.

Looking back on that moment, I often regret that I did not kiss her back. Maybe things would have turned out differently - maybe not. It's just one of the many bitter-sweet things that have happened, but the memory still haunts me.

Soon Nicki's phone rang and we were rushing to the Mecca to meet Marie. My emotions were raw from smoking with Nicki and I was unprepared for what I was about to see and hear. These were the best of times and the worst of times; the warmest and the coldest times.

Horror Has A Face

When we arrived back at the Mecca and had breakfast, I joked that this, and Nicki's apartment, were really the only things I had seen in Fairbanks. Marie told me that I could soon add the experience of "how real Eskimos lived" to my list.

At first the idea conjured up images of ice igloos, fury clothes made from animal skin and sled dogs. Boy, was I ever wrong.

Marie decided to take me and leave the rest of the group behind. Nicki seemed to be the official chauffeur so the three of us drove North on the Elliot Highway. For about an hour it was a total white world and we could barely see the road. Marie told me that we were visiting some friends that had suffered from the "heater." She warned me that it would not be a pretty sight and gave me a few pointers on how to interact with the Inuit.

"They are a friendly people and they will want to sit down and share something to drink or eat with you before you ask any questions."

Soon, in the distance, the white background was punctuated by a collection of brown, rusting vehicles, some old sheds, lots of metal containers and some cinder block homes. I did see a few sleds and dogs but there were also mounds of trash and plastic tarps. In fact, it was really ugly.

Nicki elected to stay in the car and listen to tapes while Marie and I approached the single story dwelling. Before we could knock on the door it was opened and a very old woman with missing teeth greeted Marie with a big hug. They exchanged greetings in a language that I could not repeat. It had lots of guttural inflections and whistles and the same phrases were being directed at me as I was led inside.

It was warm. A kerosene heater warmed the small room. There was just enough room for us all to sit and the old woman immediately began to make some tea and offered us some canned sugar cookies.

The home was simple but contained lots of family photographs and art that was obviously drawn by a child. As we drank the tea, Marie explained who I was and the mood began to sink. The old woman cried and her voice became a shrill as she grabbed a collection of old photographs.

Through Marie, I learned that the woman's husband and son had been sledding with their dogs when the "sky burned them." They were found with their dead animals about 50 miles North of her home several days after the most recent "experiment" with the heater. She cried and broke my heart. I cried with her. Her pain was so obvious and I was aware that she had so little in her life as it was.

Marie showed me photographs of the woman's husband and son, taken only months before the incident. I looked but didn't know what to say. What do you say? They were gone and she was alone.

After about an hour we left. The woman tried to make us take some cookies with us. "Imagine that," I thought, "She has so little and yet wants us to have a gift." My heart was crushed.

When we got back to the car I could see that Marie was also weeping. But we were not finished. We drove a few miles up the road where there was a small collection of the same dwellings, grouped together. This time we would see the living victims.

Once again we entered a small dwelling. It appeared that the residents had designated a single shelter as a kind of community room. There was a generator somewhere, popping in the distance, and it supplied power for a radio that played strange music. There was an accompanying hum and hiss that reminded me of short-wave and I assumed the broadcast could be originating from Siberia.

The women in the community building seemed to know why we were there. Tea was already hot and they wasted no time showing me a baby with a deformed face. The child had a hole where its nose should have been and a cleft palate. I am no doctor and so the significance of this defect was hard to determine until a second baby was brought to show us. This child had been born blind and had a deformed hand. Marie explained that both births were from women that lived here and who were pregnant when the "sky burned."

The mood here was different. The women obviously loved the children and had decided to care for them regardless of their physical problems. They smiled and made noises to the babies, who appeared to smile and respond to their love. I maintained my smile long enough to reach the car and then broke into tears. Nicki moved to the back seat and put her arms around me while I sobbed. I had not cried that much since I was a kid.

As we drove back, Marie said she had planned a few more stops but decided I had seen enough. That was a wise decision. Somewhere between this outpost and Fairbanks my sadness turned to anger. We decided it was best for me to return to Nicki's apartment.

Marie called Jonas and Dave and told them how I reacted. They decided it was best to let me rest for a while but insisted on giving me a send-off at the Mecca, joking that they knew I had to see that bar again before I left Alaska.

Nicki and I were alone again and we smoked a bowl to Greg Allman. She knew how to distract me and I did my best to forget what I had seen. Getting stoned was not the best remedy at first, but Nicki showed me some photographs of Fairbanks in the summer, of her and Jonas on some beautiful hikes, and I was soon in a better mood.

It struck me that photographs can be either happy or sad, bitter or sweet. And that tragedies can effect people in the same ways: for better or worse.

My flight home was scheduled to leave the following morning at 11. Nicki wanted to be sure that we had enough gas in the Chrysler so took me along while she filled up, joking that I might get to see more of "beautiful downtown Fairbanks." I agreed and we drove around, taking the "scenic route."

Nicki nudged me with her elbow, "Here. Load it up." It was the scrimshaw box again.

"Sure." This was becoming familiar to me again. As we drove around the wide streets in the dark we saw a collection of headlights approaching. There were dozens of vehicles in a line and Nicki pulled the car to the curb. "What's that?"

"It's just the monsters. They do this every now and then."

As they drew closer it was obviously a military convoy of Hummers and larger half-track vehicles. They were painted white and gray-blue - camouflage for the icy environment - and were a reminder that Fairbanks is a strategic location for the same forces that run the death ray. My anger ignited again but Nicki quickly drove away and we stopped for gas.

The gas station was run by an Inuit man. I went inside to get us both some coffee. The owner's wife was inside. In fact, it appeared they lived there in the station. I could hear a baby crying as I poured the coffee and when I went to pay for it, I saw the baby sitting near the cash register. It had a thick red growth on its chin - bright red -and it displaced the skin on the child's entire neck. This was another birth defect, but was it related to the heater? Was this just a coincidence? Or was something really wrong in Fairbanks?

Nicki was in such a good mood that I didn't mention the baby. We smoked some more, listened to more Allman Brothers on her 8-track and headed back to her place before meeting our friends at the Mecca.

The party was small. Dave and Marie both thanked me for coming and gave me a miniature bottle of Khalua as a joke parting gift. I suspected the drink had some personal significance relating to their inter-racial marriage, but I didn't ask. Jonas also thanked me and took me aside, "Hey. Nicki really shined up to you. I can tell you like her too. You keep in touch with her - okay?" I assured him I would do that. Later he was too drunk to talk, but we had said everything that was important.

I wanted to say something special to Nicki, but not "good-bye." She had gotten to me, had shared some special moments with me and had allowed me to be vulnerable - to be human. Later when everyone had gone home we returned to her apartment and talked all night. For some reason I was not tired at all and we shared our life and times in a way that I have not done in many years. Although we were not physically intimate, there was a bond, a future, but I didn't know how it would develop.

In the morning there were phone calls. I called Vey back in Connecticut and Dave and Jonas called me to say thanks. Nicki took me to the airport and I gave her my parka and retrieved my leather jacket and suitcase. Fatigue prevented me from getting emotional and I was soon back in Connecticut, making notes and writing my story.

No, it doesn't end here. In fact, this is just the beginning of what happens when you reveal the truth and confront the most powerful organization on Earth. The story was published, in part, and it did get a reaction. And that's next.

The Consequence of Truth

By the spring of 1999 the office of Viewzone had moved to Western Massachusetts, just outside Springfield. The story about Alaska had been sanitized of any names or references and was posted as a feature article. I had even obtained an interview with Dr. Bernard Eastlund and learned that he was just as disillusioned about his patents being used for war as the rest of us.

Dr. Eastlund welcomed the opportunity to speak his piece but also warned me that I was "messing with God," as he put it. He made an interesting comment to me that I had heard before, "You will not make a difference."

After about a month on Viewzone, the article got picked up by the Art Bell Radio Show, a large syndicated show that was on late at night and featured more UFO and weird science topics. This was a global syndication that obviously came to the attention of the powers "up there" and so it was inevitable that they would pay me a visit.

It happened one Monday morning, just after I arrived at the office. Two men showed up at the door asking to speak with Dan Eden. When I identified myself they asked if I would please step outside the office where they flashed NSA (National Security Agency) credentials. I was subsequently invited for coffee at the Westover Air Force Base in nearby Chicopee.

I suppose I knew what it was about but the men wore nice suits and looked very young and harmless. They said that they just wanted to show me some material and ask me some questions and that I would be safely returned to the office in a few hours or less. As they drove me to the base they made small talk and avoided talking about any "business."

Westover was an old B-52 base back in the cold war days. Since the break up of the Soviet threat it has seen lots of disrepair and much of it has been turned over for civilian use and low rent housing for the surrounding community. During the Gulf War it was partially re-activated as a stop-over and refueling station for cargo planes and reservists.

We entered the base and drove to one of the few remaining guard posts where we were waved through. The men escorted me to what looked like an old officer's living quarters that was full of old metal desks and file cabinets. We entered a locked door that was flanked by two spit-and-polished soldiers with rifles and, inside, there were two more older men waiting and watching the news on television.

When I entered they turned off the TV and asked me to sit at a large wooden table. One of the older men, wearing civilian clothes, asked me if I had written the article on the Alaskan "death ray." The way he pronounced "death ray" made it appear that he was about to ridicule the story - but I was wrong. Instead of asking about the article they were more concerned with the sources of my information.

"Whoever spoke to you violated the National Security Oath that they took and they were aware that this was illegal and subject to consequences." A different man addressed me in a harsh manner. "By revealing this information to you they have created a situation. Do you understand?"

This first older man asked me if I wanted a coffee and pushed a box of Danish pastries in front of me. "Look, Dan. We don't want to cause any trouble for you or your magazine... what's it called... Viewer, Viewzone?... we just want to know where you got the information so we can remind the sources that they have a responsibility. Do you follow me? Would you like some coffee?"

I never thought I would be using my journalistic prerogatives to protect my sources, but that's what came out of my mouth and it seemed to be effective. This upset the older man and he pounded his fist on the table, "Look. Here's the deal. They committed a serious crime and you are assisting in this crime if you don't cooperate. We can find out anyway but it won't be pleasant for anyone involved. Don't you love your country, Dan? Don't you care that this type of activity makes America vulnerable?"

"Okay. Relax." The other man picked up a Danish and started eating it. "How do you take your coffee, Dan? Here. Think about this for a minute. Take your time. These Danish are good. Here have one, and how about that coffee?"

"Look, I am not saying anything. I'll get a lawyer or something but I don't have to say anything." This really upset the older man and he left the room. The remaining men sat around the table and talked, as if I were not there. They discussed the possibility that I would cooperate if I had any more contact with the sources and suggested that, since I was now aware that this activity was a serious crime, I would of course want to do the legally correct thing. After all, I did not want to be in trouble simply because someone else had committed a crime. They asked me if that sounded fair and I said it did.

The older man then entered the room and stated the same facts in a formal way, asking if this was my understanding and whether I agreed to this. I told him I had no problem with that and I was driven back to the office by the two younger men. Before leaving the car, one of the men gave me his card and asked that I call him if I wanted to discuss anything.

When I returned to the office, some of the other staff tried to joke about the men that "took me for a ride." It must have looked humorous but, for me, it wasn't. I re-read the story on Viewzone many times to see if I had mentioned anything that would reveal the identity of Dave or Jonas. I had their phone number but I was afraid to call them. I waited two weeks before I attempted to reach them from a friend's business phone. Sure enough I did reach Dave and warned him. But what he told me in return was much more horrible. Nicki was dead.

These Walls Have Ears

The most difficult two weeks in my life were the days following my conversation with Dave. Our conversation was brief but I wanted - needed - more information about Nicki. I wanted to believe that it wasn't true or that Dave was mistaken but I didn't dare call him back.

Two weeks went by and he called me at Viewzone's office. He said he didn't care if they were listening and that he and Marie were already in Washington state, calling from a phone booth, on route to their new home. Marie had found a job in Bellingham and Dave had also found employment as an social worker in a rest home under a different name. Jonas was still in Alaska, but now in Anchorage.

Nicki's death was unreal, even for her friends. She had been found in her Chrysler many miles from Faribanks, on a remote trail. The official police report said it was a suicide from carbon monoxide, with alcoholism being a factor. But it also claimed she was covered with vodka and several empty vodka bottles were found on the front seat.

Dave and I agreed this was no suicide. She wasn't depressed. In fact, as painful as it was to hear, she had been expecting to see me again and had talked about flying down to surprise me. The vodka was another problem. She never drank vodka. Jack Daniels was her one and only drink.

They found her on a weekend when she failed to show up for work at the Mecca. This was only a few days after I had my visitors. Dave and Marie had made the connection immediately and left Fairbanks. Jonas had heard someone was looking for him and so he also booked.

Was there a connection? We weren't sure. It was almost too much for everyone to deal with, let alone understand.

I spoke with Dave for about 30 minutes. I was depressed and scared. Then I was angry and wanted revenge. I had started to write the second part of the story, revealing the birth defects and the two "experiments" that were conducted. This would teach them a lesson...

Two days after my conversation with Dave I had another visit, this time by the man who had given me his card. He asked me to sit in his car and said he had something important to tell me. I felt nothing but contempt towards him but I went with him.

He told me that he was aware I had spoken with one of the sources of my story, and he asked why I had not reported this to him as we agreed. Something inside my head snapped. I vented a string of foul remarks that ended with a threat - something like, "Yeah. You just wait and see what I will write next!" That was a mistake.

It was obvious that they had listened to the