"Hi there," Emmett said with a bright smile. His smile faded somewhat when the airman on duty took his identification and pass without a word. As he was waved past the first checkpoint, Emmett took one last look back at the blue sky above Colorado Springs. After two months of preparation and research, he was really here. In the next few days he'd be talking to aliens and people who'd saved the world. He was going to ask a man what it was like to be dead, and was half-afraid of what the answer might be. Going past the next checkpoint into the mountain complex itself, Emmett admitted to himself that ignorance was indeed sometimes bliss.
In a conference room in Norad he met his assistants. They looked alike and seemed amazingly young to Emmett. His cameraman introduced himself as "James. Ah, Dale James," and, with a little motion towards his uniform, though it wasn't marked that Emmett could see: "Tech Sergeant." He sounded sheepish and a little proud. Emmett suspected that'd only recently achieved his current rank.
The other young man snapped to attention and said, "Shep Wickenhouse, Airman First Class." Emmett could almost hear the unspoken "Sir" and resisted the urge to say "At ease." So Wickenhouse was the sound guy.
Emmett had no idea what their attitude was towards civilians. One would expect that he'd be assigned people who would help and not hinder him, but painful experience had taught him that was not always the case. Straightening a little and wishing for the hundredth time he hadn't let his gym membership lapse in those months after Kathy died, he said, "Well, then, as you know, I'm Emmett Bregman. For the next few days I want you to consider yourselves my employees. I won't ask you to do anything that goes against your orders. If I accidentally do so, you're free to correct me, but otherwise, if I ask you to do something I expect you to do it. If either of you have a problem with that, I suggest you leave now, before the work really starts." He paused to gauge their reactions. Wickenhouse was impassive, but James was nodding a little.
Just then there was a knock on the door. A uniformed man entered and said formally, "Mr. Bregman? Colonel Tom Rondell, Cheyenne Mountain Complex Public Affairs Liason."
Blinking at the rapid-fire delivery, Emmett gave the man his best smile and said, "That's quite a mouthful. Call me Emmett."
Rondell's stern expression never wavered from beneath his mustache. "Yes Sir."
Great. One of those types. Shaking his head a little, Emmett gestured to his crew. "Uh, OK… this is my posse here," and let his new crew introduce themselves, as they clearly didn't know the man either. Rondell nodded to both but didn't offer a hand. Maybe it was a military thing.
Rondell turned towards the door. "The General is ready for you now." As his team picked up their gear, Emmett checked his notes one final time. On the walk to the elevator he lightly interrogated the two about their previous filming experience. They weren't the rank amateurs he'd feared they would be, but they'd never done a full-length documentary before, let alone one on such a heady topic.
Inside the crowded elevator the conversation died away as they all watched the numbered floors click down to Sublevel Eleven. Once there, they all signed yet another form and moved from the first elevator into a second, while grim-faced soldiers carrying huge machine guns—perhaps SPAS 12s, though Emmett was hardly an expert on guns—watched them carefully. Once inside, Rondell hit the button for Sublevel Twenty-seven. Again the trip was quiet.
When the elevator stopped, they went down a short hallway. Rondell briskly knocked three times on the office door, and a voice within said, "Come."
As they entered, Emmett got his first look at a man who before he'd only seen in pictures; General George Hammond. As Rondell said their names the general straightened a stack of papers and put them to one side before turning his pale blue gaze towards Emmett. Without preamble Hammond said, "I consider it my responsibility to protect my peoples' interests. I will not allow your presence here to threaten any ongoing missions or the safety of my people."
Feeling chastised though he hadn't said a word, Emmett said, "That's something I certainly don't want either, Sir," putting all the sincerity he could into the words. "My job is to chronicle what you've been doing here, and frankly, I think it's an amazing oversight that it hasn't been already."
The general frowned. "That's because it's top secret. Only a handful of people will see anything you shoot."
"Ah, yes," Emmett thought. "Typical military thinking. If it's not useful immediately then what use is it?" Aloud he said, "So far General, so far. Eventually, inevitably…this program is going to be disclosed to the American public and the whole world, and I think that this small film we're doing may provide insight into what has been going on here for the last six years."
"What has been going on here?" Hammond asked, his voice dangerously soft.
But an easily-intimidated journalist didn't get anywhere, as Emmett well knew. Meeting the other man's gaze he said, "With respect, Sir, that's what I'm here to find out. I don't expect to be welcomed with open arms into the lives of your people. But I've been invited to do this by the President of the United States, and all I can ask is that you try to meet me half-way." Hammond nodded curtly, effectively dismissing them, and Rondell led the group from the room.
Emmett didn't say much as Rondell escorted them to the VIP rooms on Sublevel Twenty-five that would be their base of operations. Emmett had provided a list of personnel he wanted to interview, and he saw a sheet on the table with the interview schedule. Glancing at it, he was that Major Samantha Carter was up first, and in only a few hours.
He'd requested that when possible the interviews be conducted in the person's office, and it looked like Major Carter had agreed to be interviewed in her lab. So they'd have to go a bit early to set up and check the light and acoustics of the room. As the other men checked their equipment, Emmett busied himself putting his interview questions in better order. He could feel himself shifting from his usual perspective into his professional "working mode," where he saw the world much as the camera did, the room around him as a set, the people around him as actors. He could hardly wait.