by Bob Mayer
Then she stared at the river, the water flowing by so slowly, held up by Loudoun Dam downstream, so much so that they called this a lake. And she felt it again, that feeling of trouble having arrived and more trouble coming.
Looking out the window again, she could see a boat was stalled out, about a quarter mile downstream, the driver fussing over the engine.
Yeah. There was a problem.
“Welcome to Area 51,” the old man in desert camouflage fatigues said to Ivar. The small plane that had dropped him off just moments ago raced down the runway and was airborne within seconds, as if the pilots were anxious to get out of here. Its running lights twinkled in the dark sky; the only hint of dawn was a slight red tinge on the eastern horizon.
Ivar looked around. “This isn’t Area 51.”
Nothing but desert in all directions. The runway was a pitted concrete strip, half covered with drifting sand, with just a tattered windsock hanging limply on a rusting pole.
“Sure it is,” the old man said with as much spirit at the windsock. “I’m Colonel Orlando. You’re”—he paused and looked at a clipboard—“Ivar. For now,” he added.
“Area 51 has the longest airstrip in the word,” Ivar pointed out.
“Well, third longest,” Orlando said, “and that’s the main strip. Which is a long ways thataways.” He pointed vaguely to the southwest. “This is an auxiliary strip. We’re having some, uh, well, security issues, so we thought it safer to bring you here.”
“What kind of security issues?” Ivar was tall, thin, but no longer stooped as if afraid of the world. Seeing the Rift open at the University of North Carolina, the Russians die, and a year of Special Operations training had changed him. Into what, even he wasn’t sure yet.
But he liked the changes.
His face was still thin, his hair brown and thinning. His eyes were dark and there were lines around them that hadn’t been there a year ago; before the Nightstalkers blasted their way into the lab he was working in at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.
Colonel Orlando might have stood tall once upon a time, but the years of working in the covert world had accumulated on his shoulders, much like the way the gray crept into Moms’s and Nada’s hair.
Instead of answering, Orlando turned toward an old battered jeep, indicating for Ivar to follow.
“I wasn’t done with my training,” Ivar said.
“Ms. Jones believes you are and when she says you’re done, you’re done.”
“Who is Ms. Jones?” Ivar read more into Orlando’s statement than the obvious, which he had a feeling was intended.
“I’m taking you to her.” Orlando got behind the wheel. “Coming? It’s a long walk to anywhere from here.”
Despite being the subject of numerous documentaries, blogs, newspaper reports, movies, and so on, very little of the truth of Area 51 is known to the outside world. It’s in the Middle of Nowhere, Nevada, and you have to want to get to it to even take any road close to it. And you couldn’t get to it, unless you were invited, which few people were.
Ivar was now one of those.
To the west of Area 51 is the Nevada Test Site where 739 nuclear weapons had been exploded by the U.S. Department of Energy.
And another one, just last year, by the Nightstalkers. That one wasn’t listed on Wikipedia.
Nobody wanted to get to the Test Site. And even if someone got to it, they wouldn’t last long, given the lingering radiation.
Going back to its origins, the location received its name when a large chunk of Nevada was bought (appropriated) by the government during World War II because the military at Nellis Air Force Base needed some place for its pilots to practice dropping bombs and strafing targets before shipping them overseas to do the same against the Japanese and Germans.
Traditionally, the military took training posts and divided them into training areas. It was easier to do numbers, and sometimes, surprisingly, even the military took the easy way. So the portion on the map surrounding Groom Lake had received the number 51. It might have easily been 50 or 52, but 51 it was.
The conspiracy theorists do have one thing right. Majestic-12 did begin at Area 51 and from there on out the place became the hub for a lot of super-secret activity, including mundane things such as testing beyond-state-of-the-art aircraft.
As far as the aliens from Roswell being brought there?
No such luck.
There were no aliens from Roswell.
It really was a weather balloon.
But the best cover-up is a cover-up of something that never happened to cover up something that happened. Anyone in covert ops knows that, and if one can wrap their brain around that concept, they might have a chance of surviving in the Black World. Roswell was leaked to the press and appeared to be a cover-up for recovery of an alien artifact and bodies, because one state away, at super-secret Area 51, they were dealing with another problem altogether: a Rift.
Over the following decades, enough weird stuff happened around Area 51 that couldn’t be completely covered up, and UFO enthusiasts began to focus on it. Every day a flight from McCarren Airport in Las Vegas took off and landed at Groom Lake, on the aforementioned third-longest runway in the world, depositing workers. It returned to Vegas each evening, taking them back home.
While the stuff they worked on was classified, the real work happened farther underground, at levels none of those on the plane would ever get access to. Nor did any of them particularly want access to those levels. Sort of like you might find the Mines of Moria interesting to traverse if you absolutely had to, but you don’t want to know what’s way down there in the darkness.
Speaking of which, Ivar asked Orlando as he got in the passenger seat, “I thought I’d be taking Janet in?”
Orlando laughed. “Been checking Wikipedia?” He threw the jeep into gear. “Nightstalkers don’t take Janet. Hell, son, they aren’t even stationed in Area 51 proper. You’ll see.” The jeep moved forward with a lurch.
“The government actually got some stuff right there at Groom Lake,” Orlando said as he spun the wheel and they rolled onto a paved road, heading south. “They been flying worker bees in and out of Area 51 since ’72. The planes and pilots were under several front companies for the National Security Agency, until someone got smart and said fuck it, let’s just let the air force do the flying for the government, since that is what the fucking air force is supposed to do, right? But they still paint the fuckers weird, red stripe down the side. Like they was trying to draw attention to the fact that the flights weren’t fucking normal.”
Orlando had not taken part in the Battlestar Galactica marathon.
Orlando glanced over at Ivar, who could swear he smelled alcohol wafting across the jeep from the colonel, but who also picked up the challenge. “So they’re a diversion too?”
“Don’t say it with a question mark,” Orlando said. “The Nightstalkers like statements, not questions. And the big jets, the 737s, they got the red stripe. The little ones, like the one you just flew in—”
“Had a blue stripe.”
“So you were paying attention,” Orlando said as he shifted gear, the jeep’s transmission protesting loudly. “That’s how folks like you get in and why you land out here, rather than at Groom Lake.”
“How do I get out?”
Orlando laughed. “You might be smarter than you look. You aren’t even there yet and you’re asking about leaving.” He had one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shifter, and he slammed it into the best the old jeep could do. “It’s easy. You just say no.”
“No?”
“Did I stutter?” Orlando said. “When Ms. Jones asks you, you just say no and you get to leave, go home, go back to whatever fucking rock you crawled out from under.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Orlando then reached into
his pocket and pulled out a flask. He expertly unscrewed the top with the same hand holding it and took a deep drink. He held it out to Ivar.
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Orlando screwed the top back on and slid it into his pocket. “Funny thing is, no one has ever said no to Ms. Jones. That I know of. Now, of course, I do think some should have. But she’s got a way of putting things.”
“So she’s going to ask me what?”
“To be a Nightstalker, son,” Orlando muttered, then in a low voice, “Maybe.”
Ivar leaned closer. “What was that?”
“You met some of the Nightstalkers in North Carolina,” Orlando said. “That’s what they’re called now, but they’ve had a lot of names over the years.”
“It’s a cover name,” Ivar said.
“So you listened in some of your classes,” Orlando said.
“The army’s elite Special Operations helicopter unit is called the Nightstalkers,” Ivar said. “Task Force 160 is its official designation. They flew us on some of the training missions. I assume these Nightstalkers aren’t helicopter pilots.”
“Yeah,” Orlando said, clearly not impressed. “The team has had some dumb-ass names over the years, but we all kinda like the current one: Nightstalkers. Go after things that go bump in the night. Catch ’em and destroy ’em.”
“What about study them?” Ivar asked.
“Spoken like a true fucking dumb-ass scientist,” Orlando said. “Anyway, the team was first based at Area 51, because some dumb-ass scientists opened the first Rift there, way back when. Most of those idiots ended up getting snarked through, never seen again. The ones that weren’t sucked through the Rift ended up dead.” He glanced across at Ivar. “Ms. Jones must have seen something in you, boy, because if she just wanted you to be a scientist, she’d have made you an Acme, one of the Support people. Maybe even an on-call Acme. But she sent you to Spec-Ops training so that you’ll know which end of the rifle the bullet comes out of. So she wants you to be a Nightstalker. There’s a big difference.”
“A scientist can’t be a Nightstalker?” Ivar asked.
“Not many.” Orlando snorted. “It’s real simple. When it comes down to it, do you want to study the fucking problem or solve the fucking problem? Nightstalkers solve problems, usually caused by scientists, so that the human race can go on, ignorant and blissfully unaware of the shit they just avoided. Little things, like the end of the world.”
Orlando twitched the steering wheel to avoid some road kill. “The team moved out of Area 51 proper when it got too popular. TV shows, news reports, all that bullshit, even the CIA releasing data on it via the Freedom of Information Act. The Nightstalkers hate media almost as much as they hate scientists. We call our new home the Ranch. Because it actually was a ranch, which we bought. It’s technically private land, which is good because we can use deadly force to protect the grounds while the guards at Area 51 just escort dumb-asses off the perimeter and wag a stern finger at them. Ought to stick that finger up their ass.”
They came to a stop sign where the road T’ed. Orlando actually stopped, even though they could see to the horizon in either direction and there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Orlando put on his turn signal.
But he left the jeep in neutral, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Ivar waited patiently, for at least thirty seconds, which doesn’t sound long, but most people can’t sit behind someone at a green light for two seconds without blaring their horn.
“Something wrong?” Ivar finally asked.
“Yes.”
Ivar looked where Orlando was staring. “What?”
“There’s an intruder out there.”
Ivar peered ahead. In nautical terms, it was BMNT—begin morning nautical twilight—where the horizon to the east was clear but the sun had not yet broken the plane.
“Where?”
“You can’t see it. But I can.”
“What it?”
“But you can see the M4 in the bracket in front of you, right?”
It wasn’t hard to miss the automatic rifle clamped to the dashboard in front of the passenger seat. “Yes.”
“Slowly, very slowly, take it.”
Ivar looked out into the desert. There was nothing moving, nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a rabbit.
Ivar removed the M4 from the bracket.
“Careful, son, there’s a round in the chamber.”
“I know how to use a weapon. Now,” he added, and nodded. “The bullet comes out of that end.”
“Big difference between the firing range and real life,” Orlando said. He still hadn’t moved.
“What’s out there?”
“The enemy.”
Ivar stuck the M4 out toward Orlando. “Here. You see it, you shoot it.”
“I can’t,” Orlando said. “I’m being targeted. Don’t you see? On my chest?”
Ivar look at Orlando’s chest, but all he saw was the name tag and the Combat Infantry Badge Velcroed to the uniform.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Good,” Orlando said. “If you can’t see it, maybe it can’t see you. Ready your weapon, soldier.”
Ivar had the rifle in his hands. He stared at Colonel Orlando hard, then put the stock to his shoulder, his eye to the sight. “What am I aiming at?”
“One o’clock. One hundred and fifty meters. See that pile of rocks?”
“Yes.”
“Eight inches to the left of the last rock. It’s about four feet tall.”
Ivar saw nothing. He curled his finger around the trigger.
“Fire.”
Ivar pulled the trigger. He saw a puff of sand about forty meters past the “target.”
“Damn, son,” Orlando said. “Close. About six inches to the right.”
Ivar adjusted.
“Give it three rounds.”
Ivar quickly pulled the trigger thrice, riding out the recoil.
Three puffs of sand.
“Hot damn!” Orlando exclaimed, slapping Ivar on the shoulder. “Stand down, son, stand down. You got ’im.”
“What did I get?”
Orlando threw the jeep into gear and turned left.
“Aren’t we going to get whatever it is I shot?” Ivar asked, still grasping the M4.
“Why?” Orlando asked, as if truly puzzled by such a strange request. “You got it.”
Blake was sitting by the pool in the Myrtle Beach complex, wondering if his grandkids had enough sunscreen on. He was also trying to remember if they even had sunscreen when he was a child. But he couldn’t conjure up an image of ever being at a pool as a kid. Growing up in Detroit, the summer season was short and pools were in even shorter supply.
His daughter always griped that he forgot things, but he wondered how she’d have turned out if she’d grown up in Detroit. She’d dropped the kids off on her way to work, expecting him to babysit them all day ’cause her nanny was out sick.
Right. Out sick. Sick of the damn kids, more like it.
He’d done it right. Slathered it on both the little beasts and then made them stand around, fidgeting for the requisite time indicated on the side of the bottle. They complained, naturally, being his daughter’s children, that none of the other kids had to wait to get in the water. Of course, there weren’t that many kids here at the pool this early in the morning, but he was damned if he was going to let them run around his apartment.
“That’s ’cause their parents are stupid,” he’d informed them, and regretted it right away, because they’d tell and then his daughter would lecture him about saying negative things about people, but the fact is, most people are kind of deserving of negative, in his experience.
He’d seen that working for the government—well, sort of the government—for thirty-four years.
“All right,” he said, and the two monsters dashed for the pool and cannonballed in. Blake’s focus was now on a young mother across the water, rubbing sunscreen on incredibly long legs. He was wishing he could do it for her. He started analyzing the problem, the mother being the objective. One of the first things he’d learned working for the government was never, ever, take the frontal assault.
At least not yet, he thought with a grin.
He scanned the kids and located the one that was obviously hers. Too small, too near the water, no vest, no floatie things on the arms and the mother was too focused on getting every square inch, probably worried about skin cancer, to notice for the moment. The narcissism of the young never failed to surprise him.
Perfect flank maneuver and Blake grinned once more as he made his move, considering the double entendre of the thought.
He caught the kid just as he was about to fall into the water and smiled at the startled mother. He had his line ready, but then the phone in his bag across the pool rang. Not his phone exactly, but the phone, the distinctive ringtone of the chorus of Warren Zevon’s “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” He dropped the kid—kerplunk—and strode back to his bag, the angry exclamations from the young mother falling upon his back like splashes from the pool.
Irritating but ineffective.
Damn job, Blake thought as he looked at the text message.
He sighed. He’d have to go pull the cache to get the other other phone and encryptor in order to relay the message. And, of course, encrypt it. But first, he had to figure out the source, then the path and additional messages that went with this particular number.
Damn, damn job.
“We did not contain,” Moms summed up the “Clusterfrak at the Gateway,” as the team had designated the mission. Moms had a couple of broken ribs, making any deep breath difficult. According to Doc, it would be especially painful if she laughed, but she hadn’t laughed since the Snake went down and didn’t see much laughter on the horizon. It was early morning at the Ranch, but underground, time often meant little. They’d been flown back from St. Louis, landing at Groom Lake instead of the Barn, since the Snake was out of commission, and driven back here, a rather unhappy group.