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    Dulce Truths: The Dulce Files, #2
    Dulce Truths: The Dulce Files, #2
    Dulce Truths: The Dulce Files, #2
    Ebook203 pages3 hours

    Dulce Truths: The Dulce Files, #2

    By Greg Strandberg

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    About this ebook

    Dulce Base may have been destroyed, but the conspiracy around it and the dark forces working behind the scenes have not.

    Traitors are afoot in Blue Lake base, and neither the Dutchman nor his son are safe. That’s clear when the murders start.

    The super soldiers that went into Dulce now run through time and space in a desperate attempt to save their world, and countless others.

    For sci-fi, ufology and conspiracy lovers...this book has it all!

    The Black Knight Satellite

    The 177th Time Travel Division

    Secret Moon Bases

    Alien Motherships around Venus & Mercury & the Moon

    The 1989 & 1991 Russian UFO Crashes

    Majestic 12

    Alien Abductions

    Hybrids

    Lemurians

    The Atlantis/Reptilian Connection

    The Reptilian Invasion of Lyra

    Bkti, the Alien Crash Survivor

    The Lost Planet Maldech

    Hitler & Antarctica

    The Hollow Earth Theory

    Paul Bennewitz

    John Titor

    And a whole lot more!

    Stop waiting and buy this book. You’re about to go on one helluva wild ride!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Strandberg
    Release dateApr 2, 2017
    ISBN9781386829119
    Dulce Truths: The Dulce Files, #2
    Author

    Greg Strandberg

    Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana. He graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History.When the American economy began to collapse Greg quickly moved to China, where he became a slave for the English language industry. After five years of that nonsense he returned to Montana in June, 2013.When not writing his blogs, novels, or web content for others, Greg enjoys reading, hiking, biking, and spending time with his wife and young son.

    Read more from Greg Strandberg

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      Book preview

      Dulce Truths - Greg Strandberg

      DULCE TRUTHS

      The Dulce Files, Book II

      Greg Strandberg

      Big Sky Words, Missoula

      Copyright © 2017 by Big Sky Words

      D2D Edition, 2017

      Written in the United States of America

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

      Connect with Greg Strandberg

      www.bigskywords.com

      Table of Contents

      Prelude – The Entrance

      Part I

      1 – The Back Door

      2 – Off the Grid

      Part II

      3 – Winding Down

      4 – Leaks

      5 – Heather

      6 – Abductions

      7 – Reunion

      8 – In Too Deep

      9 – Betrayal

      Part III

      10 – New Realities

      11 – Imprisoned

      12 – Allies

      13 – Past the Stars

      14 – Black Knight

      15 – Traitors

      16 – Behind the Curtain

      Part IV

      17 – Out of Time

      18 – To the Shed

      19 – Dulce Depths

      20 – On Board

      21 – A Real Blow

      22 – Dogfight

      23 – Safe Harbor

      Part V

      24 – Fighting Back

      25 – Their Master Plan

      26 – A Friend Indeed

      27 – Barging In

      28 – Old Memories

      29 – The 177th

      30 – The Time Shed

      31 – The Trifecta

      Part VI

      32 – Past and Future

      33 – Soul Catcher

      34 – Fire on the Moon

      35 – Back in the USSR

      36 – Playing Both Sides

      37 – Blue Lake Redux

      38 – Payback

      39 – The Lake Oswego Incident

      Bibliography

      About the Author

      Prelude – The Entrance

      The Jicarilla Indian Reservation near Dulce, New Mexico

      August 9, 1947

      Noro continues up the trail, finally coming to its rocky top. He stands there on the ridge, surveying the vast Archuleta Mesa. It’s a rocky landscape, with scrub bushes here and there, sometimes a patch of juniper trees, but mostly jagged rocks the color of burnt orange. It was the land Noro had called home for all his 62 years. He was a Jicarilla Apache Indian, with hair still long and still quite black. It blew in the wind, though the yellow bandana tied around his forehead kept the hair out of his eyes. He’d surveyed his homeland many times, but for the others with him it was new ground. Noro stood waiting for those others to come up behind him. Colonel Harry Anderholt was first.

      There it is, Noro says, putting his arm up to point out the area.

      Where? Anderholt says.

      There...by those large boulders...you can’t see it from here, but once you get there you’ll be able to walk behind them.

      And that’s where the entrance is?

      Noro nods but continues to look out at the rocks in the distance. The bones mark it, bones that’ve been sitting there for 60 years...ever since we came to this land. He looks back to Anderholt. We Jicarilla know enough to stay away from that place, you should too.

      Anderholt puts his arm up. Lead on.

      Noro was expecting such a response, and simply turns back around and starts down the trail. His mind starts down the trail of memories.

      The Jicarilla Apache called Dulce home, had for nearly a hundred years. The tribe spoke the Southern Athabaskan language, though the name ‘Jicarilla’ was actually Mexican Spanish, meaning little basket. Hundreds of years ago they’d been located in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, in what would eventually become the state of Colorado. Beginning around the year 1525, however, they began to branch out into the Great Plains. For about 175 years they lived the life of plains Indians, riding their horses and hunting the buffalo, until the eastern tribes were pushed ever westward by the whites and their expansions inland. The Jicarilla were pushed south into the less-hospitable lands surrounding the Archuleta Mesa, an area that’d eventually become part of New Mexico. Years of smallpox and tuberculosis followed and the tribe was decimated. Then in 1887 they were given their reservation and 20 years after that they were allowed to expand into the lush San Juan Basin. Finally, things began to look up for the tribe. It didn’t last long.

      By 1920 most of the tribal members were suffering from either malnutrition or tuberculosis. It was widely believed that the tribe would go extinct. To make matters worse, the reliable pastime of sheepherding fell on hard times. Many tribal members gave up on the land and moved to town. The closest was Dulce, which at that point had but a few hundred people. The Gomez family had started the place as a ranching stronghold in 1877, naming it Agua Dulce, Spanish for sweet water. A natural spring ran through the area, giving the people and the animals a reliable source of drinking water in the parched land. Then WWII came, taking a few of the Indians and town folk as recruits. For the most part the war had little impact on that corner of the country, though the area was eyed for its resource potential. That’s how things got started – with lumber.

      The Jicarilla had been looking for some lumber to help them build their homes, for while the government might have allowed for a reservation back in the 1880s, it sure didn’t allow for much funding to help get it up and running. So the Indians relied on themselves, and the land around them, just as they had for centuries. That’s how a small group of them chanced upon the cave. Their bones were still there.

      The Jicarilla had told the government, but the government hadn’t cared. Something mysterious killing Indians? Why, that’ll just make our job easier! Noro imagines that was the response in whatever department in Washington was in charge back then. No, the government hadn’t been interested then, but they were sure interested now. All the flying craft that’d been seen in the area lately had a lot to do with that. Just the month before, Noro knew, one of those craft had crashed 300 miles to the south of them, in a sleepy little town called Roswell. Noro wasn’t sure what had happened with that crash exactly, but ever since then there’d been more and more government and military types poking around the reservation near Dulce.

      One of those military types was Colonel Anderholt.

      The colonel was in his early-30s. He had short brown hair without a hint of grey in it and a firm face that looked chiseled, as did his body. He’d been in the Army ever since FDR had started the home study Army extension courses back in 1935. That’d allowed him a leg-up on joining the reserves before his 18th birthday, which didn’t come until the following year. After that it’d been the standard rigors until mobilization for WWII had started. Due to Anderholt’s high aptitude test scores, he was chosen for the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, even before it officially started in 1942. That’d limited his combat roles in Europe while increasing his intelligence gathering work. When the OSS was rolled into the CIA after the war, Anderholt was one of the first to start at the new agency. He also took on the rank of Master Sergeant in the Air Force, a sly bit of bureaucratic rigmarole that gave him even more power and influence. From there it was work with Majestic 12 – or MJ12 as it was called – and that’s the reason he’d been sent to the Four Corners region, specifically New Mexico.

      The general saw things much differently, and as they walked down that rocky trail he could picture what the area would become, and how.

      Just a couple weeks before, after all, the government had crafted a faux story about a lumber company building a logging road through Dulce to get at the pine, fir, and spruce trees of the nearby San Juan National Forest. The trucks that went in and out were all labeled with Smith Corp. on the side, a ‘company’ based out of Paragosa Springs, Colorado. No lumber was ever hauled on the road, however, though sometimes late at night people would report seeing the trucks loaded down with big equipment destined for some area close by. Now Dulce Base had a path to it, though eventually that logging road would be destroyed. It was all part of the vast plan that MJ12 had put into place, and Anderholt had been chosen to see it through.

      How long the ‘base’ was there before the government got ready to refit it into a high-tech military installation was anyone’s guess, the colonel figured. Some say it’d been there for thousands of years, an entrance to the vast underground world where secret alien races lived, and had been living for eons. One story had the secret society known as the Illuminati entering into a pact with these alien nations beginning in 1933, and soon the government officials the society handled were trading humans and animals for high-tech know-how.

      Power would be needed to run those high-tech gadgets, Anderholt knew. To supply it, much of what the nearby Navajo Dam produced would be diverted to Dulce. In case the need for backup power arose, the El Vado Dam would be selected as a standby, and as a second location for an entrance to Dulce. Most of this work would conducted by the Rand Corporation, with help from Bechtel.

      Much of Dulce and its tunnel system, and the bases around the world just like it, would be constructed with the Subterrene, a nuclear-powered tunnel machine that burrows through the deep, underground rock by heating whatever stone it encounters into molten rock. This rock then cools as the machine passes and the tunnels it creates have a smooth, glazed lining.

      Where would all that extra rock go that the Subterrene pushes forth before it? Why, into the lakes around the El Vado Dam! Heron Lake...El Vado Lake...Stone Lake...Horse Lake...Stinking Lake...all would be created under the guise of grants for the Indians. While the area Indians would get some work blasting and hauling rock to make the lakes and dams and reservoirs, in reality they’d just be pawns. The lakes would be underwater launch sites for aliens, and disposal areas for the tons of molten rock that the underground tunnel excavations created.

      Thirty minutes after starting down from the ridge, Noro reaches the boulders that he’d pointed out. As usual, Anderholt is right behind him, the other dozen or so men bringing up the rear. Each has a machine gun shouldered. Noro knows the guns won’t be enough. Tanks wouldn’t be, he thinks.

      Well, what are you waiting for? Anderholt asks.

      I’ll go no further, Noro says, no Jicarilla Indian will.

      "You’ll go no... Anderholt starts before trailing-off. He then crosses his arms over his chest and gives Noro an angry stare. I’m paying you to go further, all the way in fact!"

      Noro shakes his head. No amount of money’ll be enough.

      Money won’t, eh? Anderholt says as he uncrosses his arms and lowers one down to his side, never taking his eyes from Noro’s. His fingers wrap around the handle of the Walther P38 he’d taken from a dead Nazi in a Berlin bunker years before. He slowly draws it from its holster then brings the weapon up and levels it at Noro, who’s standing just six feet away. Then maybe this will, he finishes.

      Noro straightens, firming-up his stance while keeping his eyes locked on Anderholt’s. The men are of equal height, though vastly different experiences. Anderholt is a man of war, having fought in one and now overseeing the start of what’d likely be countless others. Noro, on the other hand, is a man of peace and the earth. He seeks way to resolve conflicts while Anderholt blindly charges forth, eager to create them. And am I ready to die for those beliefs? Noro thinks to himself as Anderholt continues to point that gun at him. The answer comes quickly: Yes.

      Noro was about to voice that thought – in a vehement, No! that he expected would earn him the bullet that’d earn him his death, but instead a force seems to take him over and the words are unable to come out. He wants to speak out, but can’t. What he can do, and what his body seems to want to do against his own will, is turn around and continue on the last short bit to the entrance of the cave.

      Lead him, a voice comes to Noro, a voice not his own. He narrows his eyes and glances from Anderholt to the other soldiers gathered about. None looked to have said a thing.

      Noro looks back at Anderholt, his resolve to say, No! all the stronger. He manages to take a step forth to say the word, and although his mouth quivers with the effort of getting it out, nothing comes out.

      Lead him...or die, the voice in Noro’s head comes again, and this time it’s accompanied by worst headache the Indian’s ever experienced. So strong is it that he sways on his feet, and nearly falls to his knees. He would have, he realizes a moment later when he’s able to open his eyes, had Anderholt not rushed forth to latch onto his arm.

      You alright? the colonel says, a concerned look on his face. Noro can barely focus on that face, however, so searing is the memory of the pain in his mind. It lasted for only a second or two, but seemed a lifetime.

      Lead him...the voice comes again, and this time Noro does focus on Anderholt’s face. He knows he’s the ‘him’ that they’re referring to.

      Noro? Anderholt says, his eyes narrowed, though Noro now thinks the concern in them is more for the mission, not for his condition.

      I’ll take you to the entrance, no further, Noro says in a shaky voice as he begins to push himself up. Anderholt takes one arm to help him.

      That’s all I ever asked, the colonel says.

      Noro nods to that and the small group starts down the trail once again. It takes them another few minutes to reach the boulders that Noro had pointed out from the ridge but then they’re there, and Noro is looking none too happy about it.

      All the way, Anderholt says as the Indian stalls a bit, looking around instead of going behind the final boulder.

      Lead him, the voice comes to Noro once again, and with it the slightest of sharp pains behind his temples. With a frown at Anderholt, Noro turns and heads to that final boulder.

      It’s large but behind it is a slight crack, a sort of opening that perhaps two people can slip through at a time. Noro stalls again, but some loose rocks skittering behind him tells him that Anderholt is right there, likely with that gun of his still out and ready to use. Noro moves on, despite his better judgment, and passes behind the boulder.

      Then he’s in, right at the opening to a very large cave. Its ceiling is high and the walls are spaced more than twenty feet apart. That’s not what Noro notices most, however. No, what really catches his eye are the bones on the floor, a large pile of them, perhaps a dozen or so men. Noro knows they’re Indian bones, those of his ancestors. Bits of decaying feather headdresses and the occasional arrowhead stick out here and

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