Area 51 a5-1

by Robert Doherty

  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 showtime if they 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 51

  T — 143 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, pointi
ng 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-4 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.

  CHAPTER 2

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  T — 143 Hours

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

  Mike Turcotte turned with a blank expression to the man who had spoken. “Excuse me?”

  The other man chuckled. “I heard you came here from those high-speed counterterrorist boys in Germany, but I like that response. Don’t know nothing, didn’t come from nowhere. That’s good. You’ll fit in well here.”

  The man’s name was Prague, at least that was how he had introduced himself to Turcotte earlier in the evening when they’d met at McCarren Airport. Upon meeting him Turcotte had immediately sized up the other man physically. Prague was a tall, lean man, with black eyes and a smooth, expressionless face. His build contrasted with Turcotte’s, which was average height, just shy of five feet ten inches. Turcotte’s physique was not one of bulging muscles but rather the solid, thick muscular physique some people are born with, not that he hadn’t maintained it over the years with a constant physical regime. His skin was dark, natural for his half-Canuck, half-Indian background. He’d grown up in the forests of northern Maine, where the major industries were lumber and hard drinking. His shot out of town had been a football scholarship to the University of Maine at Orono. That dream had been crunched during a game his sophomore year by a pair of defensive backs from the University of New Hampshire. His knee had been reconstructed, then his scholarship terminated.

  Faced with the prospect of going back to the logging camps, Turcotte had enlisted the aid of the lieutenant colonel in charge of the small army ROTC program at the university. They’d found a friendly doctor to fudge on the physical and the army had picked up where the football team had fallen off. Turcotte had graduated with a degree in forestry and received a commission in the army. His first assignment had been with the infantry in the Tenth Mountain Division.

  The pace at Fort Drum had proved too slow and first chance he had, Turcotte had volunteered for Special Forces training. The warrant officer giving him his Special Forces physical had looked at the scars on his knee and signed off on the paperwork with a wink, figuring anyone crazy enough to try Special Forces wasn’t going to let a little thing like a reconstructed knee stop him.

  But it almost had. During the intense selection and assessment training the knee had stayed swollen
, causing Turcotte intense pain. He’d walked on it nonetheless, finishing the long overland movements with heavy rucksack as quickly as he could, as his classmates fell by the wayside.

  After starting with two hundred and forty men, at the end of training there were slightly over a hundred left and Turcotte was one of them.

  Turcotte had loved the Special Forces and served in various assignments up until his last one, which had not turned out well in his view. Now he had been handpicked to be assigned to this unit, of which he knew nothing except it was highly classified and went by the designation of Delta Operations, which made Turcotte wonder if the name had been deliberately chosen to be confused with Delta Force, the elite counterterrorist force at Fort Bragg with whom he had worked occasionally when stationed with Detachment A in Berlin — a classified Special Forces unit responsible for terrorism control in Europe.

  There wasn’t even any scuttlebutt about Delta Operations, which was rather amazing among the close-knit Special Operations community. It meant one of two things: either no one was ever reassigned out of Delta Operations and therefore no stories could be told, or those reassigned out of it kept their mouths completely sealed, which was more likely. Turcotte knew civilians found it difficult to credit, but most military men he had worked with believed in the oaths of secrecy they swore.

  But the thing that concerned Turcotte was that there were two levels to this assignment. As far as Prague and Delta Operations knew he was just another new man with a security clearance and a background in Special Operations. But Turcotte had been verbally ordered by the DET-A commander to stop in Washington on his way from Europe to Nevada. He’d been met at the airport by a pair of Secret Service agents and escorted to a private room in the terminal. With the agents standing guard outside the door he’d been briefed by a woman who’d identified herself as the presidential science adviser to something called Majic-12, Dr. Lisa Duncan. She’d told him that his real job was to infiltrate Delta Operations, which provided security for Majic-12, and observe what was going on. He was given a phone number to call and relay what he saw.