ATLANTIS

by Greg Donegan

  She was thoughtful as she kicked back in her chair and considered the photo. “Sounds like Johnny has nibbled at the hook, Dad.” She tapped a pencil against her lip, then sighed. “Damn you, Johnny. You’re always causing trouble, but this time I think you may have gone too far.”

  Nellis Air Force Base Range,

  Vicinity Groom Lake T—144 Hours

  “Wait here,” Franklin ordered as he braked the battered Bronco II to a halt. There was no flash of brake lights. He had pulled the fuse for them prior to turning onto this dirt road. Johnny Simmons leaned forward in the passenger seat and squinted into the darkness. He had to assume that Franklin was so familiar with the road that he was able to drive it without headlights. Although the road did stand out as a lighter straight line on the otherwise dark ground, the trip through the dark was unnerving.

  Simmons rubbed his forehead. They were up several thousand feet in altitude and he felt a bit of a headache from the thinner air. He was a tall, thin man, his pale skin liberally sprinkled with freckles. Simmons appeared to be much younger than his thirty-eight years and his disheveled mane of bright red hair only added to the youthful image.

  Franklin walked to one side of the road and disappeared into the darker countryside for a few minutes, then his shadow crossed the road and was gone for a few more minutes. When he returned, he was holding four short green plastic rods in his hands.

  “Antennas for the sensors,” he explained. “I found the sensors last month. I wondered why the camo dudes were always onto me so quick. They’d show up within twenty minutes of me hitting this road. Then they’d call in the sheriff and it was just a plain hassle.”

  “How’d you find the detectors?” Simmons asked, covertly making sure the voice-activated microcassette recorder in his jacket pocket was turned on.

  “I used a receiver that scanned the band lengths. I drove around and stopped when I picked up something transmitting,” Franklin said. “Right at 495.45 megahertz.”

  “Why four antennas?” Simmons asked. “Wouldn’t two do?”

  Franklin shook his head. “They’re deployed in pairs on either side of the road. That way they can tell which way you’re going by the order they’re tripped in.” Franklin talked quickly, eager to impress Simmons with his knowledge.

  The simple logic quieted Simmons for a few moments. For the first time he wondered if he was biting off more than he could chew here. Since Area 51 wasn’t listed on any topographic maps, and all roads leading onto the Nellis Reservation were posted with no trespassing signs with ominous threats printed in red, Simmons had sought help. He’d met Franklin in Rachel, a small town on Route 375 that ran along the northeast side of the Nellis Reservation. Franklin was the person he’d been pointed to by “experts” in the UFO field as the man to see about getting a look at Area 51, the place the Air Force pilot had been overflying when he’d been accosted by Dreamland Control and whatever unknown object the pilot had seen.

  Simmons hadn’t been too surprised to find Franklin a young bearded man who looked more like he ought to be doing poetry reading at a college than leading people to look at a classified government facility. Franklin worked out of a small, dilapidated house where he self-published a monthly newsletter for UFO enthusiasts. He’d been thrilled when he’d seen Simmons’s credentials and publishing history. At last someone with a little bit of credibility and pull, had been the way Franklin had put it, and he’d promised to put Simmons as close to Area 51, the code name for the Groom Lake complex, as he possibly could.

  Simmons wondered if Franklin might not be the “Captain” who had sent him the tape and letter, but he didn’t think so. There didn’t seem to be any need for the subterfuge, and Franklin had seemed genuinely surprised to see him. They’d passed the “mailbox” farther back on the dirt road about twenty minutes ago and there had been two cars and a van parked there. UFO watchers had waved at the Bronco as they drove by. The mailbox, which was an actual small battered metal mailbox on the side of the road, was the last safe place to observe the sky over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex. To Johnny it was obvious that the watchers there weren’t surprised to see Franklin’s truck drive by.

  Franklin threw the truck in gear and rolled forward about a hundred feet. “The sensors pick up ground vibes from passing vehicles, but they don’t trip on people walking or animals. Then they transmit that information back to whoever is in charge of security for this place. Without the antennas they can’t transmit. We’re out of range now. Back in a second.” He stepped out and was gone for several more minutes as he screwed the antennas back into the sensors.

  They went another two miles down the road, then Franklin pulled off into the lee of a large ridge that rose up to the west like a solid, sloping black wall: White Sides Mountain. Simmons stepped out, following Franklin’s lead.

  “It’s going to get colder,” Franklin said in a low voice as he pulled a small backpack out of the rear of his truck.

  Simmons was glad he had packed the extra sweater. He pulled it over his head, then put his jacket back on over it. It had been reasonably warm in Rachel, but with the departure of the sun, the temperature had plummeted.

  They both turned as they heard a low roar coming in from the eastern horizon. The sound grew louder, then Franklin pointed. “There. See the running lights?” He snorted. “Some of the people who camp out at the mailbox mistake aircraft running lights for UFOs. When a plane’s in its final flight path the lights seem to just hover, especially since it comes in almost straight over the mailbox.”

  “Is that the 737 you told me about?” Simmons asked.

  Franklin giggled nervously. “No, that’s not her.” The airplane banked over their heads and disappeared over White Sides Mountain, descending for a landing on the other side. A second one, just like the first, came by less than thirty seconds later. “Those are Air Force transports. Medium-sized ones, probably C-130 Hercules. You can hear the turboprop engines. Must be bringing in something. They haul in pretty much all their equipment and supplies to Area 51 by plane.”

  They heard the abrupt increase in the whine of engines and the sound lasted for a few minutes, then silence reigned again.

  He held out his hand. “Camera.”

  Simmons hesitated. The Minolta with long-range lens hanging around his neck was as much a part of his clothing as the sweater.

  “We agreed,” Franklin said. “A whole lot less hassle all around if the sheriff shows. You saw the negatives and prints back at the office that I’ve already taken of the complex. They were taken in daylight, too, with a better camera than you have. Much better than you could get at night even with special film and long exposure.”

  Simmons removed the camera, the loss of the weight around his neck an irritant. He also didn’t like the idea of having to pay Franklin for photos he could take himself. Plus what if they spotted something happening? He had noted Franklin stuffing a camera into his backpack when they were leaving earlier in the day. Simmons understood Franklin’s scam: he wanted exclusive footage if anything happened and he wanted to make extra money selling his own photos. Simmons handed his camera to the younger man, who locked it in the back of the truck. Franklin grinned, his teeth reflecting the bright moon hanging overhead. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Simmons acknowledged.

  “Let’s do it.” Franklin took a few deep breaths, then headed for a cut in the steep mountainside and began striding up. Simmons followed, his boots making a surprisingly loud clatter in the darkness as he scrambled up the loose rock.

  “Think we were spotted?” Simmons asked.

  Franklin shrugged, the gesture lost in the dark. “Well, we know the sensors didn’t pick us up. If there was a camo dude out there in the dark and he saw my truck going down the road, then the sheriff will be here in about a half hour. We’ll see the lights from above. The camo dudes, who are the outer perimeter security people for the complex, will drive by on this side of the ridge, maybe even come up prior to show-time if the
y saw we had cameras, another good reason not to bring them. The fact we haven’t seen anyone yet means there’s a good chance we weren’t spotted. If we weren’t spotted, then we can spend the whole night up top without getting hassled.”

  “Doesn’t the Air Force get pissed at you for messing with their equipment?” Simmons asked as Franklin led the way.

  “Don’t know.” Franklin giggled again, the sound irritating Simmons. “I imagine they would if they knew it was me. But they don’t, so screw ‘em. We’re still on public land and will be the whole way,” Franklin explained, slowing a bit when he recognized his paying guest’s more modest pace. “But if the sheriff comes here, he’ll confiscate the film anyway, so it’s easier to simply not haul the weight up. Plus, we got us sort of a gentleman’s agreement. This is the only spot left in the public domain that you can see the runway from since the Air Force purchased most of the northeast section last year. Most people stay back at the mailbox because they don’t want to get hassled, but we aren’t doing anything illegal by climbing this mountain.

  “But soon it won’t be legal to come here,” Franklin continued. “The Air Force is trying to get this land too. Once they get it you won’t be able to see into the lake bed from anywhere in the public domain. And you sure as hell can’t overfly this place.

  “Earlier this year they seized a bunch of the land over that way”—Franklin pointed to the north—”from the Bureau of Land Management, which had control of it. I used to watch from there occasionally.”

  Franklin gave Simmons a hand as they made it over the lip of the cut onto the side of the ridge proper. “They wanted it all, but the law says that over a certain acreage, there have to be hearings, so the Air Force seized up to their limit the last couple of years and they’ll probably do it again this year, until they get all they want, piece by piece.”

  Simmons would have liked to ask a few more questions but he was too winded to do anything but grunt.

  “We have another eight hundred feet of altitude to make,” Franklin said.

  The Cube, Area 5 1

  T—14-3 Hours, 37 Minutes

  The underground room measured eighty by a hundred feet and could only be reached from the massive hangars cut into the side of Groom Mountain above via a large freight elevator. It was called the Cube by those who worked in it—the only ones who actually knew of its existence other than the members of Majic-12, the oversight committee for the whole project at Dreamland. Cube was easier on the tongue than the room’s formal designation, Command and Control Central, or even the official shortened form: C3, or C cubed.

  “We’ve got two hot ones in sector alpha four,” one of the men watching a bank of computer screens announced. There were three rows of consoles with computers lining the floor of the room, facing forward. On the front wall a twenty-foot-wide by ten-high screen dominated the room. It was capable of displaying virtually any information that was desired, from maps of the world to satellite imagery.

  The Cube operations chief, Major Quinn, looked over his man’s shoulder. Quinn was of medium height and build. He had thinning blond hair and wore large tortoiseshell glasses to accommodate the split lenses for both distance and close up. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips, then glanced at the back of the room at a figure sitting at the main control console.

  Quinn was perturbed to have intruders nosing around tonight. There was too much planned, and most importantly, General Gullick, the project commander, was here, and the general made everyone nervous. The general’s seat was on a raised dais that could oversee all that went on below. Directly behind it, a door led to a corridor, off of which branched a conference room, Gullick’s office and sleeping quarters, rest rooms, and a small galley. The freight elevator opened on the right side of the main gallery. There was the quiet hum of machinery in the room along with the slight hiss of filtered air being pushed into the room by large fans in the hangar above.

  “What happened to the sensors?” Quinn asked as he checked his own laptop computer terminal. “I’ve got a blank on the road.”

  “I don’t know about the road,” the operator reported. “But there they are,” he added, pointing at his screen. “They might have walked in, skirting the sensors.”

  The glowing outlines of two men could clearly be seen. The thermal scope mounted on top of a mountain six miles to the east of White Sides Mountain was feeding a perfect image to this room, two hundred feet underneath Groom Mountain, twelve miles to the west of where the two men were. Thermal was extremely efficient in this terrain at spotting people at night. The sudden drop from daylight temperature made the heat difference between living creatures and the surrounding terrain a large one.

  Quinn took a deep breath. This was not good. It meant the men were past the outer security, known to locals as the “camo dudes,” but known in here as Air Force security police, with low-level clearances, who could turn them away or could bring in the sheriff to run them off. Since the Air Force security police didn’t know what was really going on at Area 51, their use was restricted to the outer perimeter. Quinn did not want to alert the inner security personnel yet because that would require informing the general of the penetration. Also, he was getting more and more concerned about some of the methods the inner security people used.

  Quinn decided to handle it as quietly as he could. “Get in the security police.”

  “The intruders are inside the outer perimeter,” the operator protested.

  “I know that,” Quinn said in a low voice. “But let’s try to keep this low key. We can pull a couple of the security police in as long as the intruders stay on that side of the mountain.”

  The operator turned and spoke into his mike, giving orders.

  Quinn straightened as General Gullick turned from the massive screen. It was currently displaying the world’s surface in the form of an electronic Mercator conformal map.

  “Status?” the general snapped, his voice a deep bass that reminded Quinn of James Earl Jones. Gullick walked down the metal steps from his area toward Quinn. The general was over six and a half feet tall and still carried himself as erect as he had when he was a cadet at the Air Force Academy thirty years ago. His broad shoulders filled out his blue uniform and his stomach was as flat as when he had played linebacker for the Academy team. The only obvious differences the years had made were the lines in his black face and the totally smooth-shaven skull—a final assault on the hair that had started to turn gray a decade ago.

  It was as if he could sniff trouble, Quinn thought. “We have two intruders, sir,” he reported, pointing at the screen. Then he added the bad news. “They’re already in sector alpha four.”

  The general didn’t ask about the road sensors. That explanation would have to come later and wouldn’t change the present situation in the slightest. The general had earned a reputation as a hard-nosed squadron leader in the Vietnam war, flying F-6 Phantoms in close support of ground troops. Quinn had heard rumors about Gullick, the usual scuttlebutt that went around in even the most secret military unit, that the general, as a young captain, had been known for dropping his ordnance “danger close”—inside the safety distances to friendly ground units—in his zeal to kill the enemy. If some friendlies got injured in the process, Gullick figured they would have been hurt in the ground fight anyway.

  “Alert Landscape,” Gullick snapped.

  “I’ve got the air police moving in—” Quinn began.

  “Negative,” Gullick said. “There’s too much going on tonight. I want those people gone before Nightscape launches.” Gullick turned away and walked over to another officer.

  Quinn reluctantly gave the orders for Landscape to move. He glanced up at the main screen. Just above it a small digital display read T-143 hours, 34 minutes. Quinn bit the inside of his lower lip. He didn’t understand why they were launching a Nightscape mission this evening with the mothership test flight only a little under six nights away. It was just one of several things that had been occurring
over the past year that didn’t make sense to Quinn. But the general brooked no discussion and had gotten even moodier than usual as the countdown got closer.

  Quinn had worked in the Cube for four years now. He was the senior ranking man not on the panel—Majic-12— that ran the Cube and all its assorted activities. As such he was the link between all the military and contract personnel and Majic-12. When Majic staff was gone, as they often were, it was Quinn who was responsible for the day-to-day operation of the Cube and the entire Area 51 complex. Those below Quinn knew only what they needed in order to do their specific jobs. Those on Majic-12 knew everything. Quinn was somewhere in the middle. He was privy to much information, but he was also aware there was quite a bit that he wasn’t given access to. But even he had been able to tell that things were changing now. The rush on the mothership, the Nightscape missions, and various other events were all out of the norm that had been established his first three years assigned here. The Cube and all it controlled was abnormal enough; Quinn didn’t appreciate Gullick and Majic-12 adding to the stress.

  General Gullick crooked a finger and Quinn hastened over to stand with him behind another operator whose screen showed a live satellite downlink, also with thermal imaging. “Anything at the mission support site?” Gullick asked.

  “MSS is clear, sir.”

  Gullick glanced over at a third officer whose screens showed multiple video feeds of large hangars with rock walls—the view of what was right above them. “Bouncer Three’s status?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “The C-130’s in?” Gullick asked, this time focusing on Quinn.

  “Landed thirty minutes ago, sir,” Quinn replied.

  “The Osprey?”

  “Ready to go.”

  “Start the recall.”

  Quinn hastened to do as he was ordered.

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