Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  Cole stepped back a pace, wide-eyed. It took a moment for his shock to wear off, and Randall realized the man wasn’t used to being argued with. The folds of his face slowly changed from the ovals of surprise to the deep cuts of anger. “You flew the largest aircraft ever built into the most restricted airspace in the United States, and you’re indignant for being challenged?”

  Bob held up his right hand. “I didn’t fly nothin’. I didn’t really even wanna go.” Nobody paid any attention to him.

  “There is no United States!” Randall said, leaning forward a little.

  “I thought you said that’s who you fly for?”

  “Well… it’s complicated.”

  “So I gather. Go ahead and explain it… trust me, we have plenty of time.”

  “How ’bout you treat us like human beings and give us something to eat and drink? And maybe we get out of this oven while we’re at it.”

  “This oven, as you call it, has been part of our daily lives for half a century. You should thank me for putting you underground. And while you seem to think we live in a world of plentiful food and comfort, none of us can remember such a world. Maybe you can, but we can’t. To me, it feels like air-conditioning down there, or at least as much as I can remember how that felt.”

  “None of which is our fault.”

  Cole thought about it. “All right, let’s talk over food. But you’d better find some manners.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll see.”

  With guns pointed at their backs, the three captives were led back indoors, through a series of stairs, corridors and doorways, until they came out on a small patch of dirt. Across a driveway were a series of doors leading into what looked like a hangar.

  “Inside, you first,” Cole said.

  “Where? The doors all say authorized personnel only.”

  “This place wasn’t built for visitors. The one straight ahead.”

  #

  Dinner wasn’t what they’d expected. The two Comanche pilots wouldn’t have cared if the food was dried lizard, they were so ravenous, but it turned out to be rabbit in a tangy tomato sauce over pasta, washed down with, of all things, wine. There was even enough for seconds. In addition to metal flatware they were given cloth napkins. Stains and ratty edges indicated long years of use, but Randall could tell they were clean.

  The meal was eaten family-style in an empty hangar. A long conference table had been dragged in decades before and, from the chips and stains, this was obviously the main dining hall. They sat at one end on either side of Major Cole, with Jingle Bob on Carlos’ right. Cole told the scraper he’d be put to work trying to repair some old hand-powered tools. Bob didn’t look happy about it, but didn’t say anything, either.

  “What about us?” Carlos said.

  “Let’s see if food gives you some manners.”

  Randall counted seventeen more men at the table, all but four of them with gray hair, or no hair, and deep wrinkles like Cole’s. The other four were much younger, and he guessed they flew the F-22s. Two men stood guard, obviously for their benefit, and halfway through dinner they switched places with two men at the table.

  “Feel better now?” Cole said, wiping his mouth. “Ready to act like an officer?”

  “I’d feel even better if people would quit pointing guns at me.”

  “The decision to let you eat with us wasn’t unanimous. Only the decision to feed you was.”

  Randall nodded as if that made sense, but he thought, Why does a commanding officer have to take a vote on decisions? “You debated feeding us?”

  “We don’t take food for granted here. If we’re going to feed a prisoner, there’d better be a damned good reason.”

  “I’m glad we passed the test.”

  “Just because we fed you once doesn’t mean we’ll keep doing it.”

  Carlos leaned into Cole’s line of sight before Randall could say anything else. “Where did you get this wine?”

  “It’s made from plums. Do you like it?”

  “I do, yeah. What about you, Joe?”

  Randall didn’t answer, he merely glared at Cole and chewed in silence.

  For the first time, Cole said something in a non-accusatory tone. “Look, boys, I’m sorry how this has played out, but we can’t take any chances.”

  Randall couldn’t let that go. He swallowed and washed it down with a mouthful of the wine. It really was good. “Chances of what?”

  The major frowned, missing the sarcasm. “You’d be surprised. Now, tell me your story again from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Then we can leave?”

  “Not telling me won’t make that happen.”

  Randall glanced up at Carlos and their eyes met. He arched his eyebrows, which meant should I humor this gasbag? Carlos shrugged. Inhaling through flared nostrils, Randall scowled at his friend’s non-help, which was another silent message meaning thanks a lot.

  Randall told the table of listening officers all of it again, down to the tiniest detail. Recruitment to Overtime, details of the base itself, the battles with the Sevens and the Chinese, and finally the process of getting the largest aircraft ever built back in the air so it could violate the forbidden zone over Area 51.

  “I told you once that we don’t call it that,” Cole said. The sudden tightening of his face made it clear he really didn’t like that name. “We are Detachment Three, Air Force Flight Test Center. D-three for short. This whole area is Groom Lake Air Force Facility.”

  “Why don’t you like the name Area 51?”

  Cole ignored him. “You said you took off from Creech… Who’s the commander there now?”

  “Can you remember his name, Bunny? I can’t, but he’s a heavy-set black man of medium height, mostly bald with gray at the edges. Kando! That’s his name, General-something Kando.”

  “All right, sounds like you’ve met him, at least. But while I tentatively believe your story now, Randall, you’ve got to admit it’s a wild one.” He turned to Carlos. “For example, supposedly you learned to fly a C-5 by accident, put in fifty hours left seat, and this was how long ago?”

  “If you mean literally, I don’t know… a long time,” Carlos said, looking to Randall for help. Instead, he folded his arms and returned a smug look. “To me it seems like about thirteen or fourteen years.”

  “Right, right, the whole sleep thing… what did you call it?”

  Randall answered. “Going cold. Once you’re in it, it’s called Long Sleep.”

  “Going cold, that’s right. Did you hear that, Bondo?”

  The man two seats down from Randall leaned forward so he could see the major. Randall recognized him as the sergeant who’d stuck a rifle in his gut when they’d first landed.

  “Cold sounds good to me, Major. I could do with some of that cold about now.”

  “It’s an expression,” Randall said, annoyed. “Look, you asked, I told. Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn for what?”

  “Sharing information.”

  Cole’s demeanor changed. He laughed and pointed at Bondo, who shared the joke with the rest of the table. “When did I agree to do that? If you haven’t noticed, those men with guns take orders from me, not you. Even though I think that I believe your story, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “You don’t have to be an asshole about it, either.”

  Carlos mouthed shut up! Then he stuffed in another mouthful of food. Cole turned his way to see if he agreed, but Carlos puffed out his cheeks and chewed, slowly. When it became apparent that Cole wouldn’t fall for the ruse, Carlos swallowed and washed the food down with the last of his wine. “I’ve never seen this guy before,” he said.

  At that moment, Cole looked every bit the commanding officer of America’s once most heavily secured military installations. Narrowing his brown eyes caused a spray of wrinkles around each one, but that only added gravitas to the look of an officer who was un-amused by a subordinate
.

  “This whole story about the C-5 sounds ridiculous on the face of it. And then you want me to believe that some helicopter techs put it back in flying condition in less than eight hours, after it had been laid up for fifty years, right? Then you come in here insulting me to my face. It wasn’t me who landed on your runway, Randall. Now, you want to try that again?”

  One of the guards took a step closer. Randall put down a forkload of rabbit, leaned forward, and crossed his arms on the table. It was obvious he was deciding how to answer. After a few seconds, he looked up, but before he could say anything Carlos spoke up.

  “No,” he said. “What I want to know is why, if you really believe that we’re fellow American officers, why you’re treating us this way?”

  Randall expected Cole to explode, but after you’d been chewed out by Nick the A, some dumpy guy claiming to be an Air Force major from the old days wasn’t overly worrisome.

  Except Cole didn’t explode. Instead, he leaned the chair backward and nodded. “So, feeding you two only makes you surly. I won’t forget that.”

  “Just him,” Carlos said. “When you feed me, I mellow out.”

  Cole went on. “I also won’t forget rude conduct toward a superior officer, namely me.”

  Randall couldn’t help himself. “You?”

  “Of course, me. If you really are from the old United States Army, as you say, and which your uniforms and possessions seem to indicate, then would you have treated a major in the Air Force the way you’ve treated me? That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way, because we both know if you had, you’d be in jail.”

  Randall’s next remark died on open lips. Instead, he squinted in thought, and then arched an eyebrow at Carlos, who reached for thirds on the rabbit.

  “No,” Randall said.

  “In those circumstances, would you have said no, or no, sir?”

  “No, sir.”

  Now Cole let his anger show. Leaning forward, he pointed at Randall. “I haven’t lived in this god-forsaken desert for fifty years by allowing disrespectful conduct from the people under my command, either military or civilian…”

  Civilian? Randall thought, but didn’t let the surprise show on his face. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “You two say you’re Army helicopter pilots, right? Well, I’ve met a lot of pilots in my life, and the only ones who are usually arrogant assholes are fighter pilots. Since the Army didn’t have fighters and based on you two, I’m guessing gunship pilots are the Army equivalent of a fighter pilot. You think your shit doesn’t stink, am I right?”

  “His does,” Carlos said. “I can testify to that.”

  Randall could think of no reason to lie. “We’re hunters. It’s kind of the job description.”

  “And you think that makes your dick bigger, but it doesn’t. All it does—”

  The clang of a metal door opening fast and hitting the hangar wall interrupted him. All heads at the table followed the progress of a man running toward them across the oil-stained concrete floor. His footsteps echoed in the metal framework high overhead. Randall noticed how much younger he was than anyone except the four men he assumed to be pilots. Panting, the newcomer leaned on his knees for a moment, cupped one hand around Cole’s left ear, and whispered. Randall was close enough to hear some of it.

  Riders… red scarves… too many…

  When he’d heard enough, Cole nodded and stood. “Let’s go, people, we’ve got a perimeter breach on the northeast. Zapboards and extra ammo. We move out in five!”

  He turned to go, but Randall grabbed his arm. “Are these guys on horseback, red scarves around their necks?”

  Cole stopped. “Friends of yours?”

  “Not in this life. These are the Rednecks we told you about. At Creech, we shot ’em up pretty bad.”

  “With your helicopter.”

  “Her name is Tank Girl.”

  “Well, Captain Randall, I wish you had Tank Girl here now, but you don’t.” With that, he pulled his arm free and stalked away.

  The two guards with guns pushed them toward the door they’d entered the hangar through, the door that led back to their room.

  “Wait a minute, Major. If you need two extra bodies, we’re pretty good shots.”

  Carlos tried to grab his arm and pull him back into his seat, but missed. Jingle Bob just shook his head.

  Cole didn’t bother to turn around, as if he’d been expecting that response. “Bring ’em!” he shouted to the guards.

  “I’m a terrible shot,” Carlos said, putting up his hands. “I’m good stayin’ here.”

  “Bring him!”

  Jingle Bob held back.

  “Get going,” one of the guards said.

  “He didn’t say anything about me.”

  “Bring him too!” Cole yelled over his shoulder.

  #

  Chapter 8

  This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.

  Oliver Hardy

  Groom Lake Air Force Facility

  1847 hours, April 23

  Bondo ushered them out, M-16 leveled at their backs. “You two follow the rest of them,” he said to Randall, Bob, and Carlos. Then he trotted to catch up to Cole, out of their hearing. “Major, a word, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Is bringing them a good idea?”

  “I don’t trust those men as far as I can kick them. I think they might be in cahoots with these riders, but I won’t know that until I can see how they react when they’re face to face. And if they’re not, you can learn a lot about a man when he’s under fire.”

  “So you want me to keep a watch on ’em.”

  “Hell, yes! Watch everything they do. If they do anything to help the intruders, anything at all, don’t hesitate to shoot first and explain later.”

  #

  They didn’t walk far in the twilight gloom. At a hangar two hundred yards from the first one, Randall saw the huge door slide open, and men dragged some flat-looking objects onto the tarmac. In addition to the dinner crew, minus the four young men Randall assumed to be pilots, another group joined to make a total of 26 people. Most wore one-piece Air Force blue coveralls.

  Cole waved everyone into a circle. “We’ve got a perimeter breach in sector two. I don’t know how big or how serious, but it looks like it’s those riders with the red neckerchiefs again. I’d like to get some prisoners, but don’t take any chances. Kill ’em if there’s any doubt. Remember what happened to Rod. Let’s move out. Bondo, find a place for our guests.”

  “I’m really okay stayin’ here,” Jingle Bob said.

  Bondo jabbed with the gun. “Get on.”

  “Get on what?”

  “The BatHoP.”

  “The what?”

  Even in the dim light, Randall could see a bizarrely shaped machine lying on the ground ten feet away. “I think he means that,” he said, pointing at what Bondo called a BatHoP.

  Four metallic circles, each three feet in diameter, were arranged around a fifth larger central circle with a mounted platform. The smaller circles each had curved transparent walls around their outward-facing halves, with sturdy rods that looked like ski poles outside of those walls. Below the center lay a large round shaft extending about two feet downward. Eight struts mounted equidistant around the four exterior areas seemed like some sort of support system, with a center-mounted tire under each one.

  Squinting, Randall realized what they were. “That’s landing gear!” he said.

  “Bright boy,” Bondo said. They all heard his sarcastic tone.

  Now it was Carlos’ turn. “This thing flies?”

  “Get on and you’ll find out. There’s a step by every station. Once we get going, hang on tight to the railing.”

  “What does BatHoP mean?”

  “Get on now, or I swear I’ll blow your head off!”

  “Come on, man, just tell him,” Carlos said. “It can’t be some big secret.”

  Bondo curled his lip like Carlos had be
en sprayed by a skunk. “Battle Hover-Platform. Are you happy now?”

  Four smaller machines were brought out last, each with a single rectangular platform, a curved handrail on two sides, and a small square housing on the underside, all held up by the same thin-strutted landing gear. The nearest was laid in the dirt four feet from where Randall stood, and despite the poor lighting he paid close attention to everything the pilot who stepped up to the hovercraft did.

  Each standing space on the BatHoP had a bracket to hold a rifle, and the Air Force men also each carried a sidearm. As Randall squinted to make out what he was doing, the man beside him switched several levers and boosted what could only have been a throttle. The engine started with a loud whirring sound and kicked up a dust cloud, but the sound soon changed to what sounded like air hissing out of a giant balloon. Seconds later the five-man BatHoP vibrated as their pilot started its engine.

  When it elevated straight up to an altitude of about twenty feet, Randall was surprised at how stable it felt underfoot. He’d expected wobble, at least a little, but instead it felt like he stood on solid ground. It was also faster then he’d thought it would be; he judged their speed at thirty knots or more.

  What he needed most was goggles. Flying insects smacked his face, and then his arms when he tried to shield his eyes. Skimming so low over the desert wasn’t a new sensation, he was a helicopter pilot, after all, but doing it without the metal skin of a cockpit was. He also hated flying without any controls. During the Battle of Prescott the year before, with Chinese and Sevens firing at him throughout the day, he’d never once felt nervous. Now he shook like a child terrified of the dark.

  After flying for what seemed like an hour but was actually only fifteen minutes, he saw flashes ahead and realized they were muzzle flashes. As the BatHoP raced closer to what was obviously a firefight, he saw some flashes coming from atop a small hill, and a lot more from the surrounding desert. As they raced closer and closer to the circle of what he assumed were Rednecks, Randall began to wonder if they were going to slow down before engaging the enemy. If so he, Carlos, and Bob were sitting ducks without weapons.