Chasing Shadows

Mr. Fantastic is giving me an ultimatum.

"The deadline for your first offer is Sunday by 5 p.m.," the man writes in an e-mail, username mrfantastic_76, on Sat., March 9. "That is when I get my other offer. They made an offer but not to my likings. So be inventive. I will deliver, and you will not have to pay until I deliver and you are happy with what you have, but not until we have a set price . . . "

The missive from Mr. Fantastic is the latest in a series of correspondence in which the sender is trying to negotiate a deal.

But this is not for antique bric-a-brac found on eBay or his Aunt Marthaís coin collection.

Mr. Fantastic, who also goes by the name of "Mike Thomas," is trying to sell me pictures from inside one of the governmentís most secure facilities. Saturday afternoon he is informing me that there is a bidding war going on and that Iíd better ante up.

"I have you and one other paper," he writes, "but it will be in confidence until I actually get you or them what you want. I can get you through the gate, into the mountain, to the underground pictures and all the stuff you guys need. Or film if you prefer. I can get pics of the underground [P]entagon, national cathedral and underground shadow government hq."

Given that this man is suggesting espionage, I have already contacted a cop I trust and my attorney, who has contacted the feds. They suggest the FBI will probably want me to string this guy along, maybe act as a decoy.

I have little more than 24 hours to decide what to do.

Am I being played? Or is this really someone trying to sell national security secrets?

Are we jeopardizing national security by reporting the siteís location?

And what about my role as a journalist in all this?

It is Saturday afternoon and the clock is ticking.

The story of Mr. Fantastic and the mysterious e-mails begins two days earlier, on Thu., March 7, in Waynesboro, Pa., a speck of a town on the Maryland border a few miles from Camp David.

I was visiting Waynesboro in response to a tip from a former National Security Agency operative I know whoíd named the locations of the two shadow government sites via a Listserv posting from the Institute for Public Accuracy. The IPA is a Washington, D.C.-based "consortium of policy researchers" run by Sam Husseini, a Palestinian-American independent media guru.

Thereís more to Waynesboro than a dying small town, said the tipster, Wayne Madsen, who, in addition to once being an NSA communications security analyst, has written for a number of publications, including the Village Voice and a French intelligence publication. Heís also senior fellow at the Electronic Privacy Information Center.

A few miles down the road from Waynesboro, he said, is something called the Alternate Joint Communications Center at Raven Rock.

"Site R."

It was created in 1950 at the urging of President Harry Truman just after the Soviets tested their first nuke. It is now, according to Madsen, home to one of the two locations of the so-called shadow government – where, since Sept. 11, senior government officials have been taking turns living underground, waiting to run the nation in case Washington, D.C., 75 miles to the south, is devastated by an attack.

I went out to Waynesboro to see what it was like to live in the shadow of the shadow government.

After interviewing several townfolk, photographer Christina M. Felice and I took a convoluted drive through twisting hilly roads, where we eventually stumbled upon Site R.

The military police were dismayed. They confiscated our film, and a local cop jumped ugly all over me, demanding that I remove my hands from my pockets because, he said, "it makes me want to shoot somebody."

We were detained for about 45 minutes, waiting for officials at Site R to check our IDs and explain that we shouldnít have taken any pictures and that our roll of film would be returned to us sans what was shot of the site.

The next day, an e-mail was waiting at my office, sent to Felice a couple of hours after weíd been detained. The e-mail was from mrfantastic_76. I returned the message and he responded.

"I can get you a video from the time you enter the gate to when you get in the mountain, if you can get me a small camera, or I can take pictures of whatever you need," he wrote. "Just give me what you are willing to offer $ wise. Try and make it worth my wild dreams. I have a position where I have unescorted access anywhere."

A walk down Main Street in Waynesboro is like a walk down the main street of any small Pennsylvania community.

There are a three or four mom-and-pop antique stores, a real estate company, a furniture store, a lawyerís office, a bank, a couple of pizzerias, a coffee shop, a state repís office and the borough hall.

The vacant storefronts tell the story of just how tough things have been in this community of fewer than 10,000, which has seen a number of large employers either close up shop or cut back drastically, just like so many other little burghs across the state.

But about 10 miles west of Waynesboro, on state Route 16, at the hill on the horizon with all the communications towers that protrude above the trees, sits a mysterious military base that many of the residents here talk about knowingly with a wink and a nod.

Jeanette Naylor, an agent with Mountain Valley Real Estate, says that she hopes the shadow government really isnít down the road.

"Itís too close for comfort," says Naylor, an elfin woman with a craggy smile and crinkly steel-gray hair. "Itís always been there," she says. "And we have always known about it."

Come to think of it, she says, "there are a lot more vehicles up there [lately] at the underground Pentagon." And clearance to get into the site "is really, really, really deep in that area."

Most people in Waynesboro, she says, "know there is a whole underground city there. Thatís what we are being told . . . There are roads, houses and it is only seven or eight miles from Camp David."

Then Naylor says that maybe having Site R around isnít so bad after all, what with the government most definitely doing its best to keep it secure.

Walking past a screen divider that separates the reception area from rest of the snug office, Naylor looks to a colleague.

"Hey, what do you think, Jerre?" she asks.

Jerre Snider, also a Mountain Valley agent, is a ramrod straight 67-year-old. He tells me he worked at Camp David when Eisenhower was there.

"Canít say much about that," says Snider, stoically, keeping to the promise he made so long ago.

Snider then offers his take on things, saying that the "shadow government" moniker is a misnomer. "It think it is the wrong term," he says. "It is not flattering. It sounds very misleading, covert and illegal."

Snider thinks it should be called some form of alternative government crisis management.

Regardless, Waynesboro may be out in the sticks, but it was right in the middle of the action during the terror attacks.

The whole area, says Snider, was on extremely high alert about a half-hour after the first attacks on New York on Sept. 11. It was initially reported that Flight 93, the fourth plane to go down, was headed for either Camp David or Site R, the long-planned executive branch hideout, which he, like Naylor, refers to as the "underground Pentagon."

The townís anxiety level has decreased since the attacks, says Snider. But still, people in Waynesboro are among the first to know when something is going down.

"We donít even have to turn on the news. We hear planes and we know right away what is going on," he says. "When they hid the vice president, well, we knew where he was."

Though it is after 9:30 a.m. on a Thursday, there is not a whole lot of foot traffic around Waynesboro. Many of the stores donít open till 10.

In the window of one shuttered shop hangs a poster for a clean-cut white musician named Jim Hendricks. The name catches my eye. "The love of Christ shared through music," reads the poster. Not a hint of purple haze.

A few paces farther east down Main, Bob Carbaugh, the 70-year-old retired buildings and grounds director for Waynesboroís school board, seems happy to talk about the site.

"I was here before it was," says Carbaugh, smiling. "I can look out of my picture window and see it."

Carbaugh says that it is a "good guess" that Site R is home to the shadow government, because "the area is so convenient to Washington and the Pentagon."

He says, "Itís underground and pretty safe – well, not by modern strategy."

Carbaugh adds that in his estimation, there is no choice but to feel safe. "My dependence is on the government," he says. "My dependence is on the government to protect us. I feel this is one of the most protected spots in the world."

The woman opening up Maís Country Crafts and Flea Market smiles brightly as I mention Site R, as if the place brings back good memories.

Apparently, it does.

"It is very neat. Very, very, very neat." The eyes in her cherubic face twinkle.

The woman, who does not want to give her name but whom we will call Shirley, says that she once worked at the site. But she didnít want to talk specifics because, she says, "they made me sign a piece of paper."

Shirley has a history with the area and its bases. She says her brother-in-law, whom she wouldnít name, served as Nixonís Camp David cook.

As Shirley rings up tchotchkes sales and puts away knickknacks, she talks about being with the MPs there and remembering the place as a vast underground city.

"It runs all the way to Camp David, thatís what my brother-in-law used to say."

Ruth Gembe, the townís former reference librarian, arrives in a flourish of her own making. The library, she says, "has the entire history of the construction," she tells me, before offering copiously detailed directions to the proper filing cabinet.

As Gembe tells me of her travails, Shirley works the phones, trying to find somebody who might want to talk to me. People are either not home or have no burning desire to converse with a complete stranger over the phone. Not that I blame them.

In between calls, Shirley engages in another seemingly favorite Waynesboro pastime, recalling with some excitement stories of pilots, and hunters who have come too close to Site R.

"You better not get too close," she says. "I know a few who got too close, and they found out real soon what it was like. And these people had guns."

Speaking of getting too close, by now it is approaching noon. A good time to take a drive and see the countryside.

I am given general directions, pointed west down Route 16, but it does not take long before I begin to wonder which way weíre headed.

We stop in a convenience store.

"Can you tell me how to get to Site R?" I ask the woman behind the counter, who looks at me in puzzlement then points me west, down 16.

Soon, the strip-mall ugliness of Waynesboroís hamlets melts, and, as Feliceís valiant Honda darts up the hills, we are amid trees and farm spreads. As we drive farther and farther away from "downtown," all I see is more and more nothing.

Then a gas station. I pull in and ask the man filling the gas tank of an SUV.

"Just west, down 16," says the man. "Look for an antique store."

We drive on, toward Camp David, as it turns out. As time passes, I wonder if we will ever find this place. So we drive a little further, until we turn around and pull into a little candle shop set back up on an access road.

As Felice loads up her camera, I walk into the shop, wondering if maybe this is the antique store the Popeye-looking gas jockey was telling me about.

I walk in and the woman at the counter smiles. Thereís a lot of traffic driving by this day, but not a lot of people stopping. I introduce myself and tell her I am looking for Site R.

She instantly tenses, then asks me for ID.

I pull out my blue Philadelphia Police press card and hand it to her. She grasps it, tightly, between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing her thumb along the surface.

"Sorry, I have to ask," she says, explaining that, back in October, "a Middle Eastern-looking man came in and waited for my other customers to leave. Then he asked me about Site R. He was very nervous."

The woman, who asked that neither her name nor the name of her store be revealed, says that, until Sept. 11, sheíd never thought twice about being all alone in a little store on the side of the road so close to Site R.

On that day, she received a frantic call from her daughter, a teacher in Maryland, whoíd heard about Flight 93.

"She was hysterical," says the woman. "She thought that it crashed at Camp David, which was initially reported. Thatís right around here."

The woman says her first experience with Site R was about 20 years ago, when she was on a picnic with her daughter and strayed too close. Men with guns quickly shooed them away.

Now, she says, there is a lot of activity on the roads and in the sky.

"You see the tan buses driving around," she says. "Those are the ones carrying people in and out."

Before leaving, I ask the woman if sheíd reported the incident with the suspicious individual. Yes, she says, to a local police officer named Powers.

As I leave, I ask her for directions.

"Drive east, down 16 . . . "

By the time we reach the top of the hill, near an intersection with an old church on the corner, I know we have driven too far.

So I look up the candle ladyís number and try to reach her, which is easier said than done, given the many cell phone dead zones that occur in the nooks and crannies of south central Pennsylvania.

When I finally reach her, Candle Shop Lady concurs that weíve gone too far. So we pile back into the Honda, heading back down the hill.

We come to a fork in the road, and I opt to head up the hill, where I can see that the road begins to get a little gravelly. Thatís where I would hide something.

The higher we go, the narrower the road becomes, the more dust gets kicked up and the more dilapidated the properties appear.

We drive past what looks like an old army depot, strewn with Jeeps and ambulances and other surplus from wars gone by.

"I bet this guy knows something," I tell Felice as we drive farther up, past the Lutheran Camp, until, finally, the road is a rut and there is no way to advance without a mule or a Humvee.

So we turn around and stop in front of the depot. A big black dog wanders out of one of the army surplus vehicles and begins barking. We get out of the car, walk up to the gate and peer in.

Nobody is around. So we walk to the shop door and knock.

Nobody answers, but the dog is barking louder now.

So we walk up the steps, and I knock on the door.

I hear a voice inside, then see a bearded face peer out.

It is an older man, and he takes a moment to decide whether he wants to greet his uncalled-for callers. Deciding in the affirmative, he opens the door and walks his lanky self out into the sunshine.

"What brings you out this way?" the man asks, before introducing himself as Bill Harbaugh.

When I explain that we are looking for directions to Site R and the shadow government, he, like nearly everyone else we talk to out here, lights up with glee.

"Oh, Harryís Hole," he shouts. "Looks like they finally found a use for it."

After grousing that it shouldnít have taken 90 minutes to get Vice President Dick Cheney to the site after the Sept. 11 attacks – an estimate based on when helicopters could be heard overhead – Harbaugh steps off his porch, walks down his cement stairs and points to the surrounding woods, which slope uphill toward the site.

"Itís underground – well underground," he says with a voice of authority. Harbaugh says that from 1967 until 1974, he worked deep in the bowels of Harryís Hole, in the engineering and generating plant.

"I hated working in that damn place," says Harbaugh. "It was so hot. Got up to 118 degrees in there. There was no natural light. They expected you to work with no fresh air."

On a roll, Harbaugh pauses for a moment.

"I got dizzy in the head," he says with a cackle. "A lot of people went nuts."

Harbaugh says he also remembers a mess hall that had walls painted like a forest, as well as a post exchange, a canteen and a room set up with a suite for the president, "with booze and clothes."

As he gives us a tour of his yard, which is filled with more army vehicles than the set of M*A*S*H, Harbaugh grouses yet again.

"Theyíve got some sissies running this place," he says of Site R. "Harry Truman, now there was a man . . . "

Armed with yet another set of directions – "Look for the old stone church, then youíll see what I call the million-dollar road to nowhere" – we bid Bill Harbaugh adieu and motor down the mountain.

It is not long before we see the stone church. And the unmarked road leading up the hill, the one we had missed an hour or so before, when we first drove by.

We turn up the road, but donít get very far. Our progress is blocked by two cement barriers, so we park. In the distance, I can see a large sliding fence open and armed soldiers milling about behind it.

"Should I take a picture?" asks Felice, whoíd never been in a situation like this before.

"Go for it," I tell her, even though I have and should have known better.

Behind the fence, I notice the soldiers seem agitated. Two metal barriers rise behind the fence, blocking any access to anyone deciding to crash through.

I pull my blue press card out of my wallet and place it in my hand, which I hold over my head as I walk up the hill, slowly.

I am quickly approached by a female MP and her two subordinates.

"Did she take pictures?" the boss MP demands.

"Yes, I believe she did," I answer.

"Donít you know you are not supposed to? We are going to have to confiscate the film."

I hand the MP my ID. The level of tension has decidedly increased.

"Please wait here until I can get the non-commissioned officer in charge," she says, turning to head back to the guard house.

As I stand there, in the warm mountain air, I try to make small talk with the other MPs.

"Things are very tense right now," says one, shaking his head solemnly. "Very, very tense."

As we talk, cars drive out of the complex, filled with serious men who glower at me. Then a sheriff pulls up from behind us on the road and asks me a few questions, wondering aloud what I was doing mucking about this place. Then a local police officer – a short man with a bad buzzcut and dark shades – pulls up. He gets out of his car and slowly, deliberately, walks up the hill and gets right in my face.

It is officer Powers, the cop the candle lady told me about.

And he immediately lets known his displeasure.

"Are you an American?" he shouts, shaking his head. "Do you speak English?

I answer yes to both.

"Do you read English?"

Before I can answer that question, he shouts again, demanding that I take my hands out of my pockets because, he says, "it makes me want to shoot somebody."

Then he launches into his take on the media.

"Our boys are dying over there. Unacceptable. You guys in the media, donít you think that Saddam Hussein was watching CNN?"

Knowing where this is going, I try my damnedest not to crack up; I just stand there, letting his venom spew. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the MPs – who were stern, yet completely courteous and professional – rolling their eyes at Powersí act.

Finally, the NCIC arrives, explains that under federal law, the government can take our film, process it and return the film sans the sensitive bits that were taken here.

Felice rolls up her film, turns over the camera and her business card – which contains her e-mail address, the only time it was given out the whole day. Then we wait for the paperwork to be processed.

Felice signs the paperwork. As she does, I can hear the NCIC explain to Powers and the sheriff, whose name I do not get, that "they have been cooperative, so we see no need to keep them."

Then the sheriff comes over for a quick lecture.

Then Powers.

"Tell your buddies in the media to keep the body count down," he says. "Now, I donít expect to see you up here again. Understand?"

Wondering what we will now do for pictures, but not wanting anything more to do with Site R, we head back for town, to take some more shots and to talk with borough manager Lloyd Hamburger about what it means to have this facility here.

"Site R is kind of a mysterious location," says Hamburger, an affable man. "When I first moved here, I moved from Three Mile Island to Number 2 on the Russian hit list."

But seriously, Hamburger says that "there are quite a lot of folks in town who work there. We have a lot of military types.

"Waynesboro is a bedrock Republican town," he says, full of NRA members, retired generals, admirals and colonels. "We have a retired CIA agent sitting on one of the municipal boards," he adds with a mischievous smile. "We are proud to have this here."

It is 4:40 p.m., Sun., March 10.

I am alone in the office, looking at the clock, looking at the e-mail and heeding the advice of my attorney, who said that I shouldnít respond anymore to Mr. Fantastic.

Twenty minutes to the deadline.

And I am still wondering.

Am I being jerked? Am I being played? Or is this guy really selling national security secrets?

Then the phone rings. It is an FBI supervisor, who has called me at the urging of the cop whom I trust.

"E-mail the guy back," says the fed. "Keep him on the hook."

I explain what my lawyer told me and my own misgivings about being a spook, not a reporter.

"I know this sounds corny, but we are at war," says the FBI supervisor, who, like all FBI personnel I spoke with, requested anonymity. "If this guy will sell you this information, he will sell it to anyone. Keep him interested. Thatís what I would do."

The guy has a point. So I disregard my lawyerís advice and dash off one last e-mail to Mr. Fantastic.

"Mike, I need more time," I write. "No one is available to make that decision."

I stare at the words on the screen. The clock is ticking.

I hit the send button.

At 4:58 p.m. my pager goes off.

I return the call. It is another FBI supervisor, the head of the joint terrorism task force.

"Did you send off that e-mail?" he asks.

After I confirm it, I ask the supervisor how seriously he is taking this.

"Very seriously," he says. "We want to find out who is selling this information. Are you available tomorrow morning? We want to come and talk to you."

When I arrive at the City Paper office Mon., March 11, just about six months to the minute after the first jet crashed into the World Trade Center, I fire up my computer and find another Mr. Fantastic e-mail.

He has agreed to accept my delay.

"Howard, I am letting you know ahead of time that what I am giving you will be the largest story since Sep 11, the governments secret base. It is nicknamed the underground pentagon, it has 5 buildings, each 3 stories, a helipad, a national satellite comm. center,direct lines to the president, moscow, norad, and other top notch organizations. Not only can I get you the pics, and/or film but I can give you the layout of any activities. So chump change will not be accepted for me risking my career. I know the shadow gov is the hottest thing going so be generous. Hope to do business soon. Mike."

Shortly after 11 a.m. two FBI agents arrive at my office. I invite them into our conference room and we chat.

I explain what happened, that an offer of espionage was one I could not ignore in this day and age, and give them copies of the e-mails. And I tell them that I am planning to run this story, espionage incident and all.

They ask questions about the hows and whys of our misadventure and when we are planning to go with the story. "We just want to know what kind of deadline we have," one of the agents says.

The conversation turns to who had access to Feliceís e-mail address, to which the first Mr. Fantastic e-mail was delivered.

Felice tells the FBI that the only time sheíd given out that information was when she handed her business card out at Site R. The only people with access to it, at that point, were the three MPs, the NCIC, the sheriff and officer Powers.

The agents peruse copies of the e-mails I give them, and both key in on a particular phrase in the initial one.

"Also if you need those pics of site r they can be obtained, just let me know," was the phrase.

"Those pics," says one of the agents.

"Yes, ëthose picsí. Looks like they were referring to something specific," says the other agent.

Then they ask for my assistance. "Are you willing to play this out?" one of the agents asks.

I tell them no, I am a reporter, not an FBI agent. Already people donít trust reporters. I donít want to see any more killed.

"Will you let us use your account?" asks the other.

Again, I say no. For the same reason.

"Before Sept. 11, we probably would not be here," says one of the agents. "Given what is going on in the world, now we have no choice."

After about 45 minutes, our conversation is over.

The agents thank us for our cooperation, shake our hands and walk out.

3:04 p.m., Mon., March 11

"Mike Thomas" has sent me an unsolicited e-mail. "i need a reply asap," he writes.

So now what?

Blow him off and maybe the FBI doesnít catch the guy? Become a decoy and peg reporters as government tools?

I fire off a number of calls to reporters and editors I respect.

There are no definitive answers, only "gray areas" and "who will ever trust us" and "think about your career."

Then I leave a message for the FBI agent who came to see me earlier in the day.

"Hey, heads up, this guy e-mailed again. But I canít be an agent. I canít be a spy."

A little while later, the agent calls back, understanding my dilemma, asking that, at the very least, I do not respond, "to give us more time to develop a plan of action."

It is something I can live with, and so I agree.

Later that night, I receive a return call from Sy Hersh, the reporter who broke the My Lai massacre story.

"You donít need me to tell you not to work for the FBI," he says in a gravelly voice. "I donít mean to be rude, but, you are in way over your head on this, arenít you? I mean, do you know who you are really dealing with here?"

7:41 a.m., Tue., March 12

Mr. Fantastic is getting anxious.

"I have not heard from you in a couple of days, are you no longer interested in the story. If so let me know so I can move on."

Oh, I am interested all right.

Interested in who you are.

Interested in why you are doing this.

And interested in what is going to happen next.

SIDEBAR: Conversations with the White House

My first call to the White House seeking comment about Site R results in a request that we consider not publishing its exact location due to national security concerns and the fact that The Washington Post , in its story breaking the news of the shadow government, agreed to that request. The spokesman agrees with the US Armyís position that "any information about the Site jeopardizes national security."

I tell the spokesperson that my inclination is to run with the location because I learned about it from a press release, so how secret could it really be?

The spokesperson promises "somebody" in the administration would call me back.

About 5:30 p.m., Joe Hagin, a White House deputy chief of staff, is on the line. I call CPís publisher, Paul Curci, and the managing editor, Frank Lewis, into my office so that they can listen, and I tell Hagin he is on speakerphone. Hagin will not confirm specifics.

"What we have been saying, in working with a number of news organizations, is that they have all agreed not to name the specific sites," Hagin says. "The specific site is not the news."

As I am speaking with Hagin, Lewis hands me a print-out of a Village Voice piece, which hit the Web just hours before this conversation, naming Site R as one of the shadow government sites. I relay that information to Hagin as further evidence, along with the press release I received several weeks ago, that this secret site is not so secret.

"As far as we know, we were not contacted by the Village Voice," says Nicolle Devenish, a White House spokeswoman who is on the line with Hagin.

Hagin then offers his take on the matter.

"One of the things we have talked about with people before is that, if one of the bad guys reads this article – and this is my basic test – if one of the bad guys reads this article and finds it helpful, then I donít think it is a very good idea to go there. It is one thing to report on the program – and the fact that it was disclosed was not helpful – but the sites are for if something bad happens in downtown Washington. The less said, the better.

"Idonít know what it means to readers, rather than just saying it is in a hardened, undisclosed site – other than a little townís newspaper where this place might be – to the population of Philadelphia or Washington. Confirming the name of it does not mean anything to those readers, in my opinion."

Devenish offers her own opinion in trying to persuade us not to disclose the name.

"If a site is compromised, historically, it becomes a tourist destination," she says. "I say that to help you understand this."

Devenish then informs me they have time for one more question.

I ask two.

"What are the ramifications if we run with this?" I ask.

Hagin quickly says that there are no threats here, implicit or otherwise, that it is our decision entirely.

"Are you guys aware of the espionage investigation taking place at this facility?" I ask Hagin.

Both he and Devenish respond that they have no information about that.

After the White House hangs up, Curci, Lewis and myself have a decision to make.

Curci asks whether we are posing a risk to national security by naming Site R. Lewis and I argue that with this information already out there via a press release, a December Pittsburgh Post-Gazette article about hiding Cheney at Site R – before the shadow governmentís existence was publicly known – and now, in the Village Voice ; there is no more issue of national security left.

"Can you sleep if Site R is bombed?" Curci asks.

"Will it be any safer if we donít run the name?" I answer with my own question. "I can sleep knowing that we didnít tell anyone who would bomb this place where it was. They already knew."

With that, we look at each other and make the call.