The Interceptors Club & The Secret of the Black Manta
By Steve Douglass
Published by Steve Douglass at Smashwords
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
PREFACE:
The author of this book asked me to write a short preface, something that would convince you to read this book. But having written nothing but term papers, it is a bit of a struggle for me.
So here goes.
You have undoubtedly read books about mystical teenage- wizards, flying dragons, witches, and strange mythical beasties.
If that is what you are looking for, read no further.
This book has none of those things.
Instead, this book is set in the real world, where young boys don’t carry magic wands, spout incantations, or ride brooms.
However, my reality is no less mysterious, filled with sinister people, international spies, and yes, there are strange flying beasts - of a sort. You’ll read about them later.
But most of all, this story is about secrets, so many secrets as real as the type on this page.
In fact, I’m surprised they (the powers that be) allowed the book to get out and onto the bookstore shelves for anyone to just buy and read.
I can’t help but wonder, was it by some miracle it accidentally slipped past government censors or maybe, as Convair suggests (you‘ll learn who he is later), it wasn’t an accident after all?
Maybe, for some reason that might only become clear to us in the future, someone working inside the intelligence community wants you to read this book.
Who knows, maybe this book serves some higher purpose, one not apparent to us now. Maybe they are preparing us for something we cannot fathom yet.
Knowing what I know, the thought of what that purpose might be scares me to the marrow.
That is the stuff of the “black world,” a strange reality that exists behind the headlines, where real spies lurk, receiving their orders in the form of coded messages coming over shortwave radio, usually in the form of an anonymous synthetic female voice reading strings of seemingly random numbers in Spanish.
I have happened across these strange “Numbers Station” broadcasts myself, many times while casually tuning through the high frequency bands in search of more interesting listening fare. Sometimes I’d pause and listen for a few minutes and then grow bored at the repetition and change frequencies.
Little did I know, some of those coded messages were intended for a dishonest-to-gosh spy living just a few blocks from my home. I would only learn later these secret messages contained specific orders on what to do about me, and my friends.
Since then I’ve learned a lot more about the “Black World.” Yet, the more I learn, the more confused I am. So if you get lost reading this and from time to time don’t quite understand who’s who or the tech involved, don’t despair. It’s quite normal.
As Convair would teach me, in the Black World, up is down, wrong is sometimes right and nothing is what it first appears. It took me quite awhile to realize that.
But before you start, know this. Although this is a grand adventure, you will be required to think.
This story isn’t a free roller-coaster ride that requires nothing learned on your part. You’ll discover a secret world that exists (invisibly) alongside this world and once you know about it you’ll view everything differently.
Not to mention, you’ll have a bit of history forced on you. So if you are looking for some mindless escapist entertainment, then don’t buy this book.
Confused? That’s the whole point. They want you to be confused. Sounds paranoid, for sure, but by the end you’ll know why.
So read on - while you still can.
I am sure that someday soon they will realize their great mistake and yank this book from the Internet.
Until that day, know that almost everything you read in this book officially never happened.
- Stanley “Static” Dodson
Prologue:
Stealth Mission
What am I doing here? Caysi Jones asked herself as she stared up at the star-filled sky above.
Although there was a touch of cool in the air, the soft white sand she was laying on radiated warmth stored up from the day’s sunshine.
Lying on – the phrase was more appropriate than she would like to think it was. She had lied to her mother about where she was going, as had the rest of Static’s crew. For all their parents knew they were at the base library, studying.
She looked over at Static and the other four boys lying on the same sand dune beside her.
She wondered what a random passerby might think, seeing six teenagers dressed in white from head to toe, lying on a sand dune, wearing night vision goggles and staring into the night sky. One couldn’t help but think they were UFO fanatics.
“Beam me up!” she wanted to shout.
She regretted not bringing her camera, wanting to document the weirdness, but then she remembered that cameras were strictly forbidden on the White Sands Missile Range, and if caught with one it would surely be confiscated.
But then, she reasoned the chances of anyone seeing them at all were almost - nil, their clothing blending into the snow-white sand.
Not to mention they weren’t exactly anywhere near where normal people might be taking a midnight stroll. They were far from the beaten path.
In fact, the only reason anyone would be out here at all was if they were specifically hunting for them, an idea that didn’t sit easy with Caysi, no matter how many times the boys had reassured her of their safety.
A sudden surge of panic rose up in her as she realized that technically they all were - trespassing.
That thought alone made her want to jump up and tell Static she had to go home, but she liked these guys, especially him, and didn’t want them to think she was a chicken.
Sure, technically there were no warning signs or fences keeping them out of the White Sands Missile Range, but the reality was they were inside the Forbidden Zone, or as they would be classified in military terms, “Unauthorized persons in a Restricted Area.”
Static, the leader of the group, looked calm and unworried. He had convinced her to come along by saying he had done it many times before without getting caught.
He assured her, if for some rare reason Air Force security patrols should stumble upon them, they “most likely wouldn’t be shot” which didn’t make her feel any better. Of course, he was only kidding around with her, she hoped.
It’s time to start having fun again, she told herself, and joining this quirky group of technology-junkies was just what she needed to keep her mind off the depressing thoughts that had nagged her since her father’s disappearance.
Besides, it seemed as if the gang had it all figured out. If caught they’d play dumb and say they had gotten lost while exploring the nearby White Sands National Monument.
Static explained, at the most all they’d get was a “good talking to,” a mere slap on the wrist, and for what they were about to experience, she was told, it was well worth the risk of getting caught.
“After all we’re minors with no past offenses. What’s the worst they would do to us? Ground us?”
***
Caysi looked down at the main runway of Holloman Air Force Base, located over the dunes about two miles away.
She watched intently as the three mysterious men in a military Humvee, parked at the end of the runway went about their business, obviously unaware of their presence on the high dune.
“So, how do we explain the white coveralls and the night vision gear?” Caysi asked, still not too sure of the plan they had concocted.
“We’ll just tell them we are scouts on a nature study, observing the nocturnal creatures of the desert,” Freaks said.
“We are trying for a merit badge. These clothes allow us to blend in and observe the flora and fauna unnoticed. It sounds plausible to me.”
“I don’t exactly look like a Boy Scout,” Caysi replied.
“That’s for sure. She’s all that and a bag of nachos!” Meinrad exclaimed.
Meinrad was never shy about expressing himself when it came to girls. It’s just too bad he only could do it using somewhat lame and mangled one-liners he had heard on TV.
Static poked Meinrad in the ribs with his elbow making him wince.
“Why? What I say?” he complained.
The jab to Meinrad’s side was more than just a subtle reminder they needed to be quiet, but to stop him from worrying Caysi anymore than she already was.
“Would you tell Mr. Elbow here, that it is a semi-free country and I can express myself in any way I please.”
“ And would you tell Mr. Yakity-Sax if he doesn’t shut-up they’ll hear us, and the rest of tonight won’t be very free for any of us,” Static snapped back. So – shut up Meinrad. You are scaring the fish.”
“Really? Well you aren’t as dumb as you look. You are dumber,” Meinrad snapped back.
“Why don’t you do us all a favor and try letting that nasty cut under your nose heal?” Static shot back.
Freaks laughed, knowing neither boy was really angry.
This is what they did.
“What? I don’t get it?” Meinrad said perplexed, rubbing the space between his nose and mouth.
Rather than explain the joke to him, Static decided to reassure Caysi one more time.
“Check it out. We are wired into their communications and know every move they make in advance. Isn’t that right Freaks?”
Freaks removed a pair of headphones.
“I’m monitoring all their radio channels on the scanner. We know where all the motion sensors are buried and we got in here without tripping them, so they have no idea anyone is out here. They have no reason to be looking for us,” Freaks added.
Caysi seemed to calm a bit, letting slip a slightly audible sigh of relief.
“Even if they did, with this night-vision-gear we’d see them coming for miles,” Freaks added.
“Unless they accidentally stepped on us or Meinrad stood up and shone a 50,000 watt spotlight at them, chances are very good they’ll never know we were here.”
“Well thank you Captain Obvious,” Meinrad mumbled. “I must have left my spotlight in my other pants.”
Static sighed. Sometimes he just didn’t get Meinrad’s antics.
“You know what? You are way too dumb for one person. You have to be triplets,” Freaks said.
It might have seemed strange to outsiders, but the boy’s usual bicker-banter was actually quite calming to Caysi. If indeed they were in danger of being discovered, they wouldn’t be up to their usual antics.
It did seem that Static had worked it all out, she reasoned. If they were scared, they’d be quieter.
“And besides, this is the tenth – no eleventh time we’ve done this and we haven’t got caught yet.
So - chill-ax,” Sami unexpectedly chimed.
“You’ve been hanging around Meinrad too much,” Static murmured.
Caysi was surprised to hear the normally shy Sami speak up, since he had more to lose than any of them since he was of Middle-Eastern descent.
“They be clueless to our Ninja-like powers,” Meinrad joked. “Their Kung Fu not so good!” he added in a fake Occidental accent.
“Really?” Caysi asked, trying to feel better.
“Really!” the boys replied in unison.
With that, Caysi relaxed and decided to put her trust in the boys.
She stared back up at the sky, listening to the boys chattering in the background.
It was a perfectly clear night. The Milky Way stood out in stark contrast. Caysi though she could even make out the Magellanic Cloud they had talked about in science class.
“Stop for a second,” Static said, with a sudden seriousness that made Caysi spasm.
Everyone fell silent.
“What?” Meinrad asked in a hushed whisper.
Off in the distance, somewhere out in the dunes the almost mournful sound of howling animals floated in the air.
“Coyotes?” Sami asked.
“A whole pack of them - sounds like a hunting party,” Static said.
“Kind of like us,” Freaks said.
“Kwiet - I’m hunting wabbits!” Meinrad said in a surprisingly good imitation of Elmer Fudd.
Static was quick to reassure Caysi, still aware she had doubts.
“They rarely get this close to the base. They are afraid of the jets. The noise hurts their ears,” Static said.
Caysi tilted her head toward the direction of the coyotes and slight (and unexpected) smile crossed her face.
“I like listening to them. Sometimes I open my bedroom window at night just to hear them howl,” Caysi said. “It calms me.”
“Really?” They scare me,” Sami said.
“I thought it was girls you were scared of,” Freaks said.
“That too,” Sami replied.
“I like the way the pack calls to each other, keeping tabs on where everyone is. They may be wild animals but they have a sense of family. I think that’s cool,” Caysi said.
For the next few minutes everyone sat quietly, listening to the coyotes communicating with each other in a secret language only coyotes could understand.
“Somewhere in the dark of night a coyote howls after her missing mate,” Freaks said, trying to sound poetic.
Freaks had hopes of being a journalist some day and never missed an opportunity to narrate.
“And then pooped a rabbit!” Meinrad chuckled.
“How poetic,” Freaks replied.
Everyone couldn’t help but laugh, except for Caysi who rolled her eyes.
At school, the cool kids looked down on this gaggle of geeks, but the gaggle didn’t seem to care. Neither did Caysi.
In fact the cool kids, the Populars as they were known at Alamo High, seemed to Caysi to be made up of mostly shallow, self-absorbed teens, oblivious to the feelings of others, something she despised.
She looked at the guys, laughing it up, punching each other in the shoulder and generally acting like boys are supposed to, not at all like the social climbers or jocks at school.
These guys always genuinely seemed happy, which was something she really needed in her life right now.
Sure, their jokes were bad. Yes, they were teenage boys with too much time and technology on their hands, but somehow it was a good fit. She liked being part of this group. She liked the way they bantered. She even liked Meinie’s lame jokes.
The boys had promised her she would have the time of her life and by-darned (she decided) she was going to go with it, no matter how geeky it might seem.
“So, when does the fun part begin?” she asked.
“Now,” Freaks replied pulling the earphone out of his ear.
“Ten Nighthawks on approach.”
CHAPTER 1.
CRITICOM
Three months later:
It was shortly after 2:00 AM when the alarm went off.
Although Ken hadn’t been asleep very long it still took his brain some time to understand what was going on.
Instinctively his hand groped for the snooze button on the alarm clock but even after his fingers found it, the pesky buzzing continued. It took a few seconds longer for Ken to realize it wasn’t his clock that was beeping loudly. It was his computer.
As the realization of what the alarm met suddenly set in Ken bolted upright, fully awake.
Throwing his covers off, Ken jumped up as if he had been lying on a spring and ran over to the computer console.
On the screen a blinking, vibrant word CRITICOM flashed in contrasting red and yellow letters, hurting his still sleepy eyes.
Ken’s adrenaline began to flow.
He had only received one CRITICOM since he had established the INTERCEPTOR encrypted e-mail system three years ago.
It contained a news flash alerting Interceptors about the terrible events that took place on 9-11-2001.
The CRITICOM was a call for all Core Interceptors (an organized network of professional and amateur radio communications monitors) to tune in and record any and all communications possibly related to the terrorist attacks on America. Ken recalled it was one of the saddest, maddening, and harried days of his life.
Minutes after it became clear America was being attacked, Ken’s phone began ringing off the hook with news reporter’s frenzied requests for information. Many national news agencies relied on Ken’s company called “Reliable Source” and knew if anyone had the inside information on the origin of the terrorist attack, he did.
The confusion on the military and aviation radio-bands on that horrible day was beyond frightening.
Every civilian aircraft flying at the time was ordered by the FAA to land immediately, while at the same time the military launched fighters into the sky to seek out, identify and (if ordered to)shoot-down hijacked civilian airliners.
Ken’s heart skipped a beat as he couldn’t help but flashback to that horrific day and hoped the CRITICOM he had just received wasn’t more of the same.
Ken then set about the task of retrieving the urgent e-mail message but it wasn’t as easy as just clicking the mouse button and opening a file.
The message itself was encrypted to keep unauthorized eyes from reading it.
Per the small chance that someone was reading Ken’s e-mail, such as the FBI (using its Dragonware 2.0 Suite of e-mail analysis programs), upon opening the message all one would see was page after page of seemingly nonsensical random numbers and letters.
To make the message readable required a key, a special computer program that decoded the cipher.
Problem was, the key to the cipher was not kept on this computer. Ken would have to save the message to a flash drive and physically transfer it to another computer, one specifically not connected to the Internet to avoid getting hacked.
Quickly he saved the message to a flash drive, erased it from his e-mail and ejected it from his computer.
Ken then fished for his car keys inside a jacket he had hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Once he found them he quickly wound his way downstairs and eventually to the basement.
As he flicked on the light, he was hit by the familiar musty smell that dwelled in places where sunshine never shines.
In a dark corner of the basement sat an uneven and water stained card table. On it rested an ancient-looking computer, covered by a yellowing plastic dust cover.
At first glance anyone would think this box of stale, outdated microchips was a relic from the 1980s, an early version of a slow-as-snails home PC, a museum piece at best. But hidden inside the well-worn shell was a modern and super-fast number-crunching maniac of a machine.
Ken had built the computer himself, assembling cutting-edge components inside what looked like a garage sale castoff that no one but an antique collector would take a second glance at.
That was exactly what Ken wanted, because inside this machine were his precious “Interceptor Files,” hidden away from government spies and hackers but always close by and in plain sight, the last place anyone would look. Ken wasn’t up to anything illegal, but the information in his files was sensitive and to be protected, especially from spies working for hostile countries. The only way to be sure it was protected was to isolate it, disguise it, and protect the files with advanced encryption.
Ken removed the dust cover, plugged in the machine and booted it up. Amazingly, it only took seconds to come to life.
Ken inserted the flash drive, loaded the message onto the hard drive, dropped it on the Blue-Crypt program, and entered his memorized cipher key.
But that wasn’t enough to decipher the file. It required another key, an image stored on another flash drive attached to Ken’s car keys.
He nervously fumbled his keys and inserted the second flash drive into a second USB port, transferred the image in the drive and dropped it on the icon that represented the encrypted message.
“One can’t be too careful,” he said to himself. “You never know who might be intercepting,” he mumbled.
A comical image (a grinning goat wearing braces) flashed on the screen and then disappeared. It was replaced with the now un-encrypted CRITICOM message.
“CRITICOM URGENT ATTENTION: CONVAIR HQ – FROM FREAKS – HAFB”
The message was from Freaks, a Junior Interceptor who lived on Holloman Air Force Base.
Ken had never met Freaks but they had shared many late-night telephone conversations.
On the phone Freaks came off as a somewhat goofy, but likable and very intelligent kid.
Ken had hopes that someday Freaks would become a valuable asset, keeping the Core informed on goings on in the White Sands Missile Range. Ken was quite aware that although Area 51 was where black projects were born, the White Sands Missile Range was where they were proven.
I hope this isn’t for nothing, Ken thought.
He had entrusted Freaks with a cipher key and access to the secure server and instructed him that a CRITICOM was only for use in case of a dire emergency.
The message began; “Junior Interceptors in trouble and need your help.”
As a precaution, Ken glanced behind just to be sure there was no one else in the basement.
There wasn’t, and by all rights there shouldn’t be - but still he tried to block the screen from prying eyes with his body.
As he read the contents of the message the hair on the back of his neck slowly stood on end.
It was incredible what these kids had done. He was amazed by what they had uncovered and at the same time scared for what they must have been facing all on their own.
After reading the 25-page letter, Ken sat back in his chair and let out an audible sigh.
They had broken the cardinal rule of Intercepting, and as a result, had put the entire free world in jeopardy.
There was only one course of action he could follow. Without realizing it he said out loud, “We have to help.”
In just a few minutes Static’s call for help would be forwarded to all Core Interceptor’s, along with Ken’s recommendation they answer Freak’s distress call.
Minutes later, throughout the country, CRITICOM alarms on dozens of personal computers began ringing.
****
AUTHORS NOTES:
Junior Interceptors
Although all of us have (by virtue of being born) it’s not a good idea to join in on any universe in the middle, especially one as mysterious as this one.
Therefore, before we get too deep into our story, you need to know something about the people involved, and especially a 15-year-old boy known to his friends as Static.
****
Static
Static wasn't his real name. It was a handle hung on him by his friend Freaks. Static's given name was Stanley Dodson and he was a 15-year-old boy, the son of a career Air Force technician.
Civilians would call Static and his friends, Air Force brats, a label applied to kids like Stanley who literally grew up on various military bases all across the globe.
The year was 2003 and for the last 10 years, Stanley and his family lived on the sprawling Holloman Air Force Base, located near the south-central New Mexico desert town of Alamogordo.
Static just loved military base life. For a technology crazy kid it was the coolest place in the world to live.
Static lived in a modest government-constructed home, located one mile off the main runway. From his bedroom window he could watch fighter planes taking off on training missions.
The nearby White Sands Missile Range was used for much more than its name implied. It was (and is) a testing and training area for much of the Air Force's cutting-edge military technology. Located on the southeast corner of the testing range was Holloman Air Force Base, which until 2006 was the home of the F-117 stealth fighter.
Although Static loved watching the F-117s fly, since they were a product of the early 1980s, they represented first generation stealth technology and were considered by Static and his friends, antiques.
In fact, the Air Force had recently announced that the F-117s would soon be retired from active service.
Static often wondered, if the F-117 Nighthawk was considered old technology, what other new and exotic aircraft was the military keeping under wraps?
Static didn’t have to look far, because sometimes on a moonless night, secret aircraft flew right over Static's house.
Known as “black project aircraft” to aviation journalists, these top-secret aircraft prototypes were the future of military aviation that officially didn’t exist.
To Static and his friends these secret aircraft were the coolest part of being a kid and living on an Air Force Base, and yet they had never seen one - well at least not yet.
He knew they were out there, probably tucked away somewhere nearby. He knew because it was practically common knowledge on the base. He knew because he listened in, eavesdropped, and collected the data.
He didn’t know why, but the more he uncovered the more he wanted in on the secrets on the base. Static figured it was only a matter of time before he saw something – secret. In fact that was his quest.
Static’s obsession with flying things was echoed by the décor in his tiny bedroom. The walls were covered with posters of aircraft. His bookshelves were overcrowded with plastic models, hobby hardware, and books on aircraft design.
Lovingly constructed miniature B-52 bombers and F-15 Eagle fighters flew in silent formation suspended from fishing line strewn across his bedroom ceiling.
Static was a stickler for historical accuracy and the realism in his models showed it. For many years running, Static had won the top-prizes in the Thrice-Annual Alamogordo Aviation Modeling Club Competition.
The only aircraft models missing from Static’s collection were those secret jets still hidden away in closely guarded hangars just miles from Static's home.
Rumors often circulated on the base of an exotic new "bat-plane" being tested out on the nearby White Sands Missile Range at night. But whenever these secret craft took to the air on test-hops, a curfew was imposed on the base. As a result any kid caught out after 10 PM soon found himself being escorted home by security police.
Repeated violations could result in a military brat’s dad losing his security clearance, or worse, being transferred to an obscure base somewhere above the Arctic Circle.
Junior Interceptor “stealth missions” were Freak’s idea, growing out of a shared frustration of living on an Air Force Base, knowing secret test flights were taking place, and not having ever seen anything remotely exotic.
And yet, Static and Freaks almost always knew when a secret test mission was occurring because of their other shared passion.
Static and Freaks were what were known as communications monitoring hobbyists.
In layman’s terms, they were radio-wave hoppers or communications eavesdroppers, unofficially known as “Interceptors” to the small but growing cult of techno-crats who shared their obsession with plucking signals out of the air.
Intercepting was born out of the boys’ need to know what they (the secret military) didn’t want them to know.
Static and his friends spent many pre-dawn hours listening in on everything their radios could pull out of the atmosphere, be it the military communications emanating from the base or the everyday civilian communications concerning day-to-day life in Alamogordo.
By mowing lawns, delivering newspapers, and doing other odd-jobs around the base, Static and Freaks had earned enough money to afford a sizable collection of scanning radios, shortwave receivers, ham radios and surplus military gear to cover almost every radio frequency band from VLF (Very Low Frequency) to the SHF (Super High Frequency) microwave bands.
Fortunately for Static and his rag-tag gang of radio hackers, every year the base held a surplus and outdated equipment auction.
Static lived for the event and usually wound up spending all the money he had earned during the summer.
This took considerable willpower, for Static was tempted every day to spend his hard-earned cash on CDs, junk food, movies and video games, but he stuck to his guns and by auction time he usually had several hundred dollars to spend on radio interception gear.
After the auction, the entire gang could be found lugging home boxes filled with radio parts, manuals, and assorted electronic junk.
To the Air Force it was garbage, but to the Interceptors it was gold. With the help of his dad, Static and Freaks would work for weeks getting the surplus gear back in top shape.
The boys would then stay up late into the night, tuning through the radio bands, listening in on police dispatches, aircraft communications, and sometimes even baby monitors located in their own neighborhoods, or as Freaks would say (putting his own poetic spin on their pastime) “listening to the wires sing."
Even as patched together as their gear was, the boys weren’t restricted to listening in on the local frequencies. During peak sunspot activity when the upper atmosphere would become electrically charged (making it work like a huge radio-wave-reflecting mirror) it wasn't unusual for the boys to intercept ship-to-shore calls from off the coast of China or a scientific station transmitting weather data from Antarctica.
But boys will be boys so sometimes their listening was more like snooping.
On nights when the international radio-pickings were slim and the police and aviation bands were quiet the boys would tune through the cellular phone bands and listen to the wireless phone calls of civilians; boyfriends talking to girlfriends, husbands arguing with their wives, and the supposedly "private" conversations of people going through their day-to-day lives.
Static and Freaks kept this part of their hobby mostly to themselves knowing it was seriously frowned upon by the Core Interceptors, and was also quite illegal.
Although on the whole, Alamogordo was a nice town, it did suffer from the growing pains of a modern society, and on a Friday night it was safer for young boys to be at home, listening in on the action from the safety of one's bedroom, rather than experiencing it first-hand.
The boys justified their eavesdropping by putting their skills to good use from time to time by helping the local police. On occasion the boys would intercept the wireless phone calls of “evil-doers” planning evil things. The lads would make tapes of these illicit conversations and anonymously mail them to the prosper authorities.
Static often wondered what the Alamogordo Chief of Police must have thought of these golden nuggets of information that seemingly came out of nowhere from no one. Although legally the tapes couldn’t be used in court, they did assist greatly in putting Alamo cops in the right places at the right time making the local crooks think either the police were psychic or there were “rats” from within their ranks only adding to the mistrust among themselves.
However, with the advent of newer digital wireless technology, finding easy-to-intercept analog-voice cell phone conversations was becoming fewer and far between for the boys.
It was frustrating for the Junior Interceptors, this push towards digital technology, but in spite of this, there were still plenty of radio bands that were digital wireless technology had yet to make an inroad, such as the UHF military aviation band (225 to 400 MHz) one of their favorites slices of the radio spectrum to monitor.
Still, when they stumbled across encrypted or scrambled communications, their mere presence indicated something classified was flying on the range.
Sometimes the Junior Interceptors could glean information on classified aircraft projects from mistakes made by inexperienced or lazy communications operators saying the wrong things on open frequencies like those used by maintenance crews or range security.
And sometimes - information about what was going on in the test ranges was provided unwittingly by Static’s own father.
Static's father was Steven Dodson, a Master Sergeant in the United States Air Force attached to the 46 Test Group.
Steven Dodson was not a pilot but a radio technician tasked with maintaining communications links used by the 46 Test Wing, who flew most of the aviation test missions in the White Sands Missile Range.
Because Sergeant Dodson had a considerable knowledge in radio communications it was only natural that his son did as well, but in fact Sergeant Dodson was very impressed by how much his son had picked up on his own.
Static had grown up peering inside the guts of radio sets and so the workings seemed as natural to him as the inside of nuts did to a squirrel.
In some ways Static had surpassed his father's knowledge of communications, since Static's dad only repaired the base's radios and rarely listened to them.
Static‘s dad never knew or cared what they were being used for. To him they were just things to be fixed, like typewriters or staplers. Static’s dad never concerned himself about what the radios were transmitting.
That is where father and son differed because Static eavesdropped on the base communications on a more than regular basis.
As a result, Static and Freaks probably knew more about what was going on at the base then the base commander did, which was by design.
Black Projects (officially referred to as Special Access Programs) were protected under a multi-layered security system designed to prevent inadvertent public exposure.
Although it may have seemed strange that the base commander did not know what was going on inside some of the closely guarded hangars on his base, it was officially none of his business and he accepted it as part of being a commander of a test base.
It was his job, no... his orders, to make sure everything ran smoothly, provide security, and generally look the other way when something secret was being test flown. At best he was just the manager of the base and not in command of what went on there.
In fact, the base commander was quite aware that someone in the Pentagon (with a lot more rank than he had) had done a security assessment and decided he did not “need to know.” And that was fine with the commander.
If he did his job correctly and there was no security leaks or supply problems or anything else that might jeopardize the security of a project, the more he would be trusted and thus quite possibly promoted to a cushy post inside the Pentagon.
Static and his dad were close. It was obvious to everyone that Static’s dad was very proud of his son, attending his baseball games, taking him on camping trips and occasionally letting him spend a day with him at work. That was always a real treat for Static. Not only did he get to spend quality time with his father, but he also got to play with current military equipment, only increasing his knowledge on the art of radio communications interception, which he would share with his best friend, Freaks.
When Static would ask his dad where he was working that day and he got the answer, “Never you mind,” he knew that something was up. Static would then dash to his room and fire up the radio gear, but not before calling Freaks and telling him to do the same.
****
Freaks
Freaks (Frank O’Neal) first met Static at the base auction while both were bidding for the same box of electronic surplus equipment. When a third party, a surplus wholesaler, began outbidding them both, the pair pooled their money and won the bid.
Later, when they divided up their winnings and began talking, they both realized they shared the same love of aircraft and radio communications.
Soon Freaks was spending most of his time at Static’s house, either twiddling the dials or playing “Fighter Pilot” on Static’s computer game console.
Freaks’ home was not a happy one. His father drank too much and his mom suffered from his abuse. His older brother Terry was a juvenile delinquent and had been in and out of the base jail so many times, it only gave Freaks’ dad more reason to drink and yell.
Freak’s dad was angry at life but he didn’t quite know why. He had enlisted in the Air Force on a whim and had been posted too far away from his family for too long.
Although Freaks tried everything to please his dad, he could not. He was too young to realize that he couldn’t win the love of a man who was at war with himself.
Freaks was close to his mom but recently he had grown angry with her for taking the abuse from his father and then defending his actions.
Freaks was tall for his age, almost six feet. When during one summer Freaks grew three inches, shooting past his brother, Terry felt his place as acting head of the household was being threatened. Because he was lacking in stature, Terry decided long ago to seem bigger by running Freaks down all the time.
Because of this, Freaks always thought of his brother as being bigger. Although he could have easily knocked his brother’s block off, Freaks was a gentle giant and took the abuse. Freaks deplored violence, especially in his brother and father, and saw it as a sign of weakness and weakness and lack of intelligence.
On many occasions he had witnessed his dad hitting his mom and it sickened and angered him.
Even though Terry continued to bully his brother and his friends, Freaks had decided long ago to never use violence when dealing with his older brother.
As young as he was, Freaks instinctively knew that brains could triumph over violence, plus it was also more fun to outwit an opponent than to resort to the caveman-tactic of just pummeling him.
Instead, Freaks would play subtle anonymous tricks on his sibling, like placing his hand in a bowl of warm water at night while he slept, forcing his brother to wet the bed. Or making mayonnaise and cat food sandwiches for his own school lunch knowing that his brother would predictably bully him into giving it up.
With great satisfaction, Freaks would sit across the lunchroom and silently giggle, watching as Terry wolfed down his ill-gotten lunch, unaware that his lunch was made from ground-up pig snouts and horse eyeballs.
Freaks found it easier to spend much of his time at Static’s house, which was okay with Dodson, for Freaks became the brother Static would never have.
Ironically, Freaks’ great talent was social engineering, the ability to judge the true character and feelings of someone through their “body language.” Freaks could read people like most could books. He had the unique ability to be able to sense someone’s needs and motives just by the way he held himself or by his body posture. He could also accurately predict what a person would do from observing his actions and applying those actions to the future.
Sometimes this talent spooked Static, who at first thought Freaks was psychic, but when Freaks explained that we all have our “tells” or sub-conscious gestures that signal our intentions, like the way Static looked down and to the left whenever he was about to tell a fib. People were predictable, if you just studied them.
Freaks’ interests in human behavior was born out of his attempts to understand his father, but his research provided scant insight into his dad’s feelings.
Occasionally Freaks saw in his dad’s eyes fleeting glimmers of love for his wife and children but only during rare sober moments when guilt from his constant drinking weighed heavily on his mind. Those moments were becoming farther and fewer, in between drinking binges.
But as tuned to people’s feelings as Freaks was, Static was just the opposite. He had trouble reading even obvious personality tells. This lack of awareness of others feelings had failed him on several occasions and sometimes Static came off as uncaring.
Much to Static’s dismay, one night Freaks pointed out to Static how he was sometimes so wrapped up in his personal quests that he often stepped on other people’s toes, unaware he was hurting their feelings.
But in turn, Freaks relied on Static to keep his deep- feelings about his fractured family in check, especially when it seemed they were spinning out of control.
When Freaks was feeling down, it was Static who could always convince him that “this too shall pass” and “in a hundred years no one will care.”
****
Meinrad
Meinrad Johansen, or “Meinie” as he was sometimes called, was the son of a German Air Force pilot assigned to Holloman Air Force Base for training in advanced combat maneuvers to bring the knowledge back home to teach his squadron.
When Meinrad learned he and his family were going to spend the next three years in America he was very excited. He loved America and spent most of his days watching American television, listening to American music, and reading pop culture magazines about American life.
Of all the Interceptors he was the most openly enthusiastic, if not downright loud. In fact Static would often have to tell Meinie to calm down and be quiet whenever they were on a “stealth” mission.
It was hard for Meinrad to be quiet and he usually chatted on and on about something or another for endless hours, especially at times when being silent was essential. Although it didn’t seem to bother him, Meinrad was often silenced with a chorus of “Shut up Meinrad” whenever he tended to run-off at the mouth.
Most of all, Meinie had a peculiar way of expressing himself.
Although he could speak several languages, and his English was very good, he tended to speak in outdated pop-culture phrases he had heard in American movies and television shows. This always caused the Interceptors to roll their eyes at every “Hasta la vista baby” and “Warp speed captain” he uttered.
He would also blurt out strange and literal commentary on his personal feelings such as, “My brain is filling with anger!” instead of just saying, “I’m so mad at you.”
But for all of Meinrad’s strangeness he also served an important function in the group.
Since Meinie was multilingual, he became the Interceptor’s club translator and helped them in understanding the communications they intercepted from non-English speaking countries.
During one incident Meinrad translated a distress call in Russian coming from a sinking nuclear submarine. An anonymous tip to an international news bureau led to front-page coverage of an event the Russians would rather the world not know about.
As a result, the Russian government had to spend billions of rubles salvaging the submarine in an attempt to appease international environmental groups worried about possible radioactive contamination of the ocean, all because some brainy teenagers in New Mexico owned a shortwave radio.
****
Sami
Sami was the only civilian boy in the group. A super-bright electronics expert and son of an electrician, Sami was a “white-hat-hacker” (non-destructive) and had forgotten more about computer systems than most people would ever know.
Sami had one major obstacle that kept him from bonding with most of the kids in his school.
He and his family were refugees from Afghanistan, and since the tragic events that happened on 9-11, Sami and his family were always the target of accusing looks and unfair speculation that they might be "the enemy."
Although the FBI did extensive checks into Sami's family and even cleared his father to do contract electrical work on the base, most everyone looked at them with suspicion even though Sami’s family loved America as much as, if not more than, any native-born patriot.
Although it was a day-to-day struggle, Sami tried his best to fit in at school. But as hard as he tried, he found himself usually alone, spending most of his days in the computer lab or in the library trying to improve his English skills.
Sami and Meinie were naturally drawn to each other, both being foreign students trying to do their best in a foreign land. Since Sami didn’t speak English as well as Meinrad, the school assigned Meinie to be his language tutor.
Although Meinrad didn’t speak Sami’s native language they did both speak Russian.
Freaks met Sami on the day he brought into the shop a broken television for Sami’s dad to fix. Sami fixed it himself, in only ten minutes while Freaks watched in fascination.
At first Freaks was taken aback by Sami’s nationality, but as they talked he realized they shared many interests. Sami was a tech-nerd same as him, a computer-geek same as him and an outsider, same as him.
Sami introduced him to Meinrad and soon they became fast friends.
One night when Static was having trouble translating a tape he had made of a German spy numbers station, Freaks suggested he bring Meinie over and thus through Meinie, Static met Sami.
Static loved Meinrad’s always-sunny outlook on life but was a bit bothered by his loud personality. Static was impressed by Sami’s computer skills and his laid-back-attitude about almost everything. He also liked Sami’s willingness to go against the group’s wishes and decisions. Sami was the all-important voice of reason and counterbalance.
Nothing seemed to bother Sami and he would grin at the most unusual times even when everything was seemingly going wrong.
Sami also served as the groups’ moral compass, and was usually the first to object when he thought the Junior Interceptors were on the verge of getting into trouble.
Unfortunately, sometimes the group listened to Sami and sometimes they didn’t.
****
Caysi
Caysi was the daughter of the airbase newspaper editor.
She was also an accomplished photographer and practiced her passion for taking pictures by shooting for the school newspaper and yearbook.
Caysi not only had a good photographic eye, she had a photographic memory. She had the amazing ability to memorize anything she wanted with just a quick glance, but for some reason she told no one about this talent.
As a result of her gift school was a breeze for her and, in actuality, quite boring. She probably should have leapt ahead to college but Caysi was painfully shy and very content to be in classes with people her own age.
Caysi was also a very pretty girl but she hid her natural beauty behind thick-rimmed glasses and always kept her long flowing black hair tied up in a bunch behind her head producing a slightly nerdy look.
Caysi had talents that made her prime Interceptor material. She had talents, some the boys themselves lacked. She was very mechanically inclined and just loved to tinker with car and motorcycle engines. Caysi had no problem with getting dirt and grease under her fingernails and could tune an engine with the best of them.
When she wasn’t out photographing her world, the Interceptors could usually find her hanging around her grandfather’s garage, dressed in grimy overalls helping him degrease an engine or taking apart a transmission.
It always amazed her grandfather how she could take apart something as complicated as a gearbox and from memory put it back together, as if she had spent years building them on an assembly line in Detroit.
It was literally by accident that Caysi joined the Interceptors Club.
The boys had built a ramshackle dune buggy and were taking turns dune-hopping when their buggy collided with Caysi as she topped a hill in her own expertly crafted dune hopper.
There was a terrific crash but no one was hurt.
Caysi watched incredulously as the boys struggled to put their buggy back together. She rolled her eyes as she watched the boys make mistake after mechanical mistake.
Needless to say when they tried to start it up it sputtered and coughed. The boys argued for what seemed to be hours over what was wrong with their contraption.
Finally Caysi (having had enough of their incompetence) grabbed a wrench, pushed them aside, and began methodically diagnosing the problems. In less than 20 minutes she had fixed the thing, leaving the boys with their mouths agape.
Naturally she was asked to join their group.
CHAPTER 2.
Revenge is a Junior Happy Fun-Time Meal and a side order of fries.
Freaks was bored.
He had finished with his homework hours ago. He went to Static’s house right after school, grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, and sat on Static’s bed eating it. It was another hopping Alamogordo Friday night and it seemed everyone in the world was out having fun but him.
Static tried hard to ignore Freak’s sighs of boredom and kept working on a huge plastic bomber model.
“Let’s do something!” Freaks shouted.
“I am,” Static mumbled.
“No, I mean other than this. I’m so bored that the usually super-exciting prospect of watching you stick plastic parts together all evening somehow has lost its appeal.”
Static was not at all sympathetic, but instead completely wrapped up in his model construction.
“Why don’t you help me with this model? I only have a week to get it done before the competition.”
“Why bother? You win Best of Show every time anyway.”
“I won’t if I don’t get this finished,” Static growled back.
Freaks furrowed his brow.
“You know what would be fun?” Freaks asked.
“This is fun,” Static replied.
“Yeah. This is to fun what watching paint drying is to entertainment.”
“That reminds me, I need more silver enamel.”
Freaks rolled his eyes. Although he admired Static’s modeling skills he had no patience for that sort of thing.
“You know what would be funny then? We could sneak over to the school and you could lie on the sidewalk in front and I’d trace around your body with chalk, like they do at a crime scene, and then pour some ketchup all around it.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Static said dismissing him.
“Remember when you asked me to tell you when you were being insensitive? Well you are now,” Freaks said.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” Static mumbled.
Freaks didn’t like it when Static retreated into his own world, so he decided to push him a bit.
“So, I was thinking – maybe we could steal a car, rob a liquor store, and blow this town,” Freaks said matter-of-factly.
“Sounds – good,” Static replied automatically.
Freaks looked over at Static, who was absorbed in carefully shaving a plastic part with a razor to get it to fit just right.
“Then we could kidnap the President, build a space shuttle and go to Mars!”
“Sounds like plan, man -,” Static replied.
Freaks grunted in disgust.
“Except the Space Shuttle only operates in earth orbit and isn’t equipped for interplanetary travel,” Static said proving to Freaks he was indeed listening.
“Sorry. I just have to get this done. Why don’t you go bug Sami and Meinrad?” Static replied.
“Oh, by the way- Gavin Farfal called Sami, Ahab the Arab in front of everyone in English class today.”
“I hate that guy. What did Sami do?” Static said momentarily abandoning his craft.
“Nothing as usual, and what’s worse is, the teacher laughed.”
“Sami doesn’t deserve that.”
Freaks grabbed a pair of binoculars off of a peg hanging on Static’s wall and stared out of Static’s window.
“I wonder if I can see Caysi’s house from here?” Freaks said hoping to get a reaction out of Static.
“No – you can’t,” Static said not taking the bait.
“I wonder how you know that?” Freaks asked.
Refocusing, he aimed the binoculars at the Mel’s Burger Barn across the highway, just outside the base entrance. Mel’s neon sign blinked brightly, dominating an otherwise pristine and spectacular desert sunset.
Through the binoculars Freaks could tell it must be getting close to dinnertime because cars were lined up at the drive-thru window. Freaks opened the window to get a better look. The sweet smell of fried foods drifted in.
“I’m hungry! You can finish that later. Let’s go to SMel’s and grab a burger!”
Static ignored him.
Freaks shouted, “Hey! I’m hungry dude!”
“Then go home and eat!” Static yelled back.
“Geeze Louise,” Freaks mumbled. “I would but I expect dad will be home soon - drunk as usual.”
Static turned to him and said, “Look, I’m at a very critical stage. “If I smear glue on the windows this will be ruined.”
“My stomach is at a very critical stage.” Freaks protested, his stomach growling growing louder.
“Mom is making supper. I’m sure it’s just a matter of minutes before she calls us to the table.”
“What’s on the menu?” Freaks asked, sitting up anxiously, excited by the prospect of eating Static’s mom’s fine home cooking.
“What do you care? You’d eat a bowl of termites if my mom asked you.”
“True” Freaks mumbled. “Especially if dipped in peanut butter!”
Static grinned knowing he couldn’t pass on a chance to needle Freaks about his seeming slight-crush on his Mom.
“You looove her!”
“I do not!” Freaks said under his breath. “I just wish I had a mom that cooked like her, that’s all. My mom can’t boil water without scorching it.”
“Besides, if Mom finds out you’ve eaten all her peanut butter she’ll send you home. She was saving it to make your favorite peanut butter cinnamon rolls. ”
Freaks held his hand up to his face, exhaled into it trying to smell his own breath. It smelled strongly of peanut butter.
“If you say something to her I’ll tell Caysi you have the hots for her.”
“Do not,” Static said.
Suddenly there was a sharp snap as Static accidentally put too much pressure on a plastic part of the model he was working on.
“I rest my case,” Freaks replied smugly.
Static threw his arms in the air in exasperation. There was no way he was going to be able to work on the model with Freaks needling him. Static looked up and saw Freaks looking out the window wearing a sly smirk on his face, the broken plastic part revealing his remark about Caysi was dead on.
“If it will make you shut up, I’ll admit it.
I guess I, kind of, sort of like her,” Static surrendered.
“Too bad dude, she likes Gavin. I saw her smiling at him today.”
Static ignored Freaks remark and instead retreated to the task at hand, finishing his model.
“She has a smile so sweet if you added carbonated water to it, you could sell it as soda,” Freaks said.
“That was good. Did you just think of that?” Static asked impressed.
“Creative Writing class is paying off. You like that?”
“Not bad,” Static said. “What else you got?” knowing full well the conversation was about to degenerate into a flurry of bad one-liners. What else you got was unspoken code for: make me laugh.
“How about, your girlfriend is so ugly that she went to see a freak show and came out with a job application.”
Static chuckled.
“Not bad. I liked the way you worked your name in there. How’s this for a comeback? Your girlfriend is so ugly when you took her to the zoo they said, “Thanks for bringing her back!”
Static and Freaks just lived for these comic exchanges.
“I can beat that without breaking a sweat. Your mamma is so fat that when she broke her leg - gravy poured out!” Freaks cackled.
“Is that so? Well, your mama is so fat when she hears it’s chilly outside she grabs a bowl!”
Static and Freaks began laughing uncontrollably while throwing rolled-up pairs of dirty socks at each other.
For a fleeting moment Freaks thought about his own mom.
“I should call my mom and tell her I’m here.”
Static tossed the cordless phone at Freaks, accidentally hitting him in the head.
“Hey jerk! That hurt!” Freaks complained.
“Sorry. For a moment there I thought you were your brother. I’d like to throw more than a phone at him.”
“Why? Did your paths cross today?”
Static turned and glared at Freaks, anger flashed across his eyes.
“Yeah, the sawed-off shrimp and his band of cave-dwellers shook me down for my lunch again. They shoved me into the girl’s restroom and wouldn’t let me out until I gave him my brown bag. Luckily I planned ahead and had lunch money on me.”
Freaks bolted upright.
“Were there any girls in there?”
“There are always girls at school, Freaks.”
“No, I meant in the restroom.”
“Nope, thank goodness!” Static said incredulous.
Freaks let out a disappointed sigh.
“Too bad.”
Static fumed, the very thought of “Terry the Trog” always getting his ire up.
“One of these days your brother is going to get it big-time!”
Freaks trained his binoculars back on Mel’s.
Instantly he recognized the vintage 1969 Pontiac GTO pulling up to the order window.
“How about now?” Freaks yelled with excitement. “My brother is at the order box at Mel’s!”
“Does he have his band of post-pubescent troglodytes with him?”
Freaks thought, Good word usage. I’ll have to remember that one.
“Doesn’t he always?”
Static jumped from his chair. “Where’s the walkie! Is it still programmed?”
“It should be, unless you changed it,” Freaks said dropping the binoculars and feeling under the bed.
“Hurry! Find it!” Static shouted.
“Code Red Jerk Alert!” Freaks shouted back.
Groping blindly under the bed, Freaks’ fingers found the object he was looking for, a military surplus VHF walkie-talkie. He quickly turned it on and set the dial to channel 57.
“Hi welcome to Mel’s. Can I take you order?” a friendly female voice said coming out of the walkie-talkie’s speaker.”
“That’s it!” Static said as he flew across the room grabbing the binoculars.
Freak’s brother Terry’s unmistakable not-quite post-pubescent cracking voice spilled out of the walkie-talkie.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll have three Papa Burgers and uh, three orders of Senior Fries and three Suicide Sodas.”
Freaks trained the binoculars at his brother. He could see Terry and his three buddies in the car laughing, punching each other, and cutting up.
Static couldn’t resist this perfect moment to get a little payback. He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie and spoke in a near-perfect imitation of Wanda, the drive-up order lady.
“Little boy, the Papa Burger is for adults. Wouldn’t you rather have a Fuzzy Bear Burger or a Junior Happy Fun-Time Meal?”
The two-way radio had been set to broadcast on the same wireless frequency the order window at Mel’s used.
When Static keyed the microphone, it was his voice that came out of the drive up order station, not Wanda’s.
“What!” Terry shouted back. “I’m not a little boy!”
“That’s so sweet. Do you parents know you are driving their car?” Static replied.