by Will Hill
But he now no longer cared if he exposed himself, or what the consequences of doing so might be. The vision in the cave had shaken him to his very core, and he was now every bit as anxious to make sure Jamie was all right as he was to continue his pursuit of a cure. Mercifully, both roads led to the same place, less than twenty miles from where he found himself.
He was sitting at a table in The Little A’Le’Inn, the modest restaurant and gift shop that accommodated the steady trickle of tourists that ventured to this remote part of the Nevada desert, lured by the small town of Rachel’s proximity to the Holy Grail of American ufologists: the classified airbase at the heart of the White Sands test range that was known the world over as Area 51.
The base, built on the vast salt flat of Groom Lake, was where the US Air Force had developed and tested the U2 spy plane, the SR-71 Blackbird, the F-117A stealth fighter and any number of other black projects, projects carried out away from the watchful eyes of the American public, and all but the highest echelons of the American government. It was also, if the conspiracy theorists were to be believed, the place where the remains of an alien spaceship that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947 had been taken, where the extraterrestrial technology had been studied and incorporated into strange, angular aircraft that could apparently be regularly seen in the night skies around the base.
In the booth behind Julian, two teenagers were expounding on the subject of Area 51, their adolescent voices shot through with posed bravado and hushed caution.
“Groom is for the tourists,” said the teenager directly behind Julian, a pale, acne-ridden boy of about seventeen, his long hair jutting out from a woollen beanie and descending over the shoulders of a black T-shirt printed with the slogan of an old TV show. I Want to Believe it stated, in urgent fluorescent green letters. “Papoose Lake, that’s where the real action is. The S-4 facility. They’ve got an installation dug into the mountains there, goes a hundred storeys below ground. That’s where they keep the greys.”
The second teenager, a boy of similar age but hugely increased girth, with a voluminous black hoodie hiding the ripples and folds of his stomach, frowned.
“You saying they’ve got live greys down there?” he asked. “Roswell was sixty-five years ago, dude.”
The first teenager rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the question, and sighed. “You’re thinking about this all wrong. All wrong. Firstly, you don’t know how long the greys live, man. You’re thinking they’re like us, but they’re not. That’s the whole point, right? Do you know what the average lifespan is on Zeta Reticuli? I know I don’t. No one does. Secondly, you forgot about cryopreservation, dude. The greys that crashed at Roswell, you know some of them were hurt, right?”
“Right.”
“Those ones, the injured ones, the government froze them, until it could experiment on the dead ones and the live ones and understand how they worked. Then they could thaw out the injured ones and make them better. That’s cryopreservation.”
“Like what they did to the colonial marines in Aliens?”
“Exactly.”
“And Fry in Futurama?”
“You’ve got it.”
“And Walt Disney?”
“Shut the hell up now, Jonny. Just eat your burger and be quiet.”
Julian’s face contorted into a sudden mask of misery. Jamie was roughly the same age as the two boys arguing behind him, and Julian wondered whether his son had a friend with whom he argued in such a familiar, friendly way. Two years was a lifetime where teenagers were concerned; they regularly appeared to change their personalities completely overnight, and Julian was terrified that when the time came that he saw Jamie again, as it was vital for him to believe he would, he might no longer recognise his son.
He pushed Jamie from his mind. Even though the crazy, dangerous thing he was preparing himself to do he was doing for his son, he couldn’t let himself think too hard about him; he needed his mind clear, and his instincts sharp, if he was going to survive the next few hours. So he thought instead about what the teenagers had been saying, and allowed a smile to rise on his face.
They’ve no idea how right they are, he thought. They’re wrong about what’s down there, obviously, but they’re right about Papoose Lake. It’s where the real action is.
Julian paid his bill and headed out of the restaurant. It was late afternoon, and the sky to the west was beginning to take on the first hues of evening, fingers of pale red that bled into the sky above the distant mountains. He climbed into his jeep, put it in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, throwing up a cloud of dust that hung in the air behind him. Thirty minutes later he was driving south on Groom Lake Road, towards the end of his long quest.
Julian Carpenter brought the jeep to a halt, in front of the warning signs that marked the entry to the Air Force Flight Test Center (Detachment 3), the strip of runway and collection of small buildings and hangars that the world knew as Area 51.
He had slowly made his way down the dirt road that led to the base, watchful for the cream-coloured pick-up trucks that patrolled the perimeter of the restricted area, waiting for the red and white signs that marked the border between the America that belonged to everyone, and the America that belonged to the government. They stood in front of him now, simple red text on white metal, warning him that going any further was a Federal offence, an act of trespass which the use of deadly force was authorised to prevent.
He scanned the desolate desert to his right and left, noting the black surveillance cameras standing on reinforced metal poles, and the sensors and imaging scanners disguised as trees and rocks. They were invisible, unless you knew what you were looking for, which Julian did.
As he sat in the jeep, collecting himself, one of the cream pick-ups rolled silently into view on the ridge above him. Its occupants, two men in dark sunglasses and desert camouflage, made no move to get out of their vehicle, but Julian knew they were watching him for the first sign of any intention of going further.
Five metres in front of him, the orange poles that marked the perimeter of the base stood at wide intervals, wide enough that many a ufologist had been arrested for trespassing without knowing he had been doing so; the undulations of the desert topography made accurately placing yourself on a map difficult, and GPS was unreliable at best in this empty part of the Nevada wilderness.
This is it. Forty-five seconds. No mistakes. Think about your family.
Julian took a deep breath, then ground his foot hard on to the jeep’s accelerator. The little car leapt forward towards the blind curve that protected the rest of the road from prying eyes, accelerating all the time, dust billowing up and around it.
Instantly, the cream pick-up truck’s engine roared into life, and it disappeared from view as its driver hurled it down the ridge towards the road. Julian pressed the pedal harder; he knew this was the crucial moment, where the success or failure of his plan would be decided. If the pick-up appeared in front of him on the road, it was over. If it appeared behind him, there was still a chance.
He hauled the jeep’s steering wheel to the right, sending it skidding behind the high ridge of rock that blocked the view of the gangs of ufologists who gathered on the safe side of the orange poles, and along a narrow valley. Walls of sloping rock rose on either side of the dirt road, and Julian instantly saw the thick plume of dust rising behind the pick-up truck as it made its way to intercept him.
He gunned the jeep’s engine, squeezing every last bit of power from its tired cylinders, and the little car gave him one final effort; it shot forward, devouring the dirt road beneath its tyres, and he gripped the wheel, fighting to keep the car pointing in the right direction. He roared along the valley floor, his eyes flicking from the ground ahead of him to the speeding pick-up, and as he approached the second turn, the turn he knew led to the gatehouse, he realised he was going to beat it to the corner.
Julian let out a primal roar of triumph, his voice deafeningly loud, even above the screamin
g engine and squealing tyres. Then he was past the pick-up; as he accelerated towards the final turn, at suicidal speed, he saw the large cream-coloured shape crunch down on to the road in his rear-view mirror, where it disappeared into the cloud of dust that was following him.
Suddenly he was at the turn.
Too fast too fast too fast.
Julian crushed the brake pedal, and the jeep’s tyres howled with protest as they threw off the speed they had been carrying. He stamped his foot back on the accelerator, felt the back end of the car begin to slide inexorably towards the rocks at the edge of the road, and hung on as he spun the steering wheel to the left. The car teetered at the apex of the corner, its weight shifting radically to the right, and for a moment, Julian was sure it was going to roll, that he was going to be crushed against the side of the road, within sight of his target.
But it didn’t roll; with a deafening, high-pitched scream, the tyres dug into the loose surface, found just enough grip, and bit. The jeep exploded around the corner, back on to the straight dirt road, and shot towards the squat structure that rose ahead of it.
The guard post, hidden from all but the most intrepid of public eyes, was a small square building, dug into the desert floor beside a long red and white barrier that covered the entire width of the road. As Julian thundered towards it, the square shape of the pickup truck still looming in his rear-view mirror, he saw the dark silhouette of a man stand up from a desk, grab something from the wall and run out towards the road. When Julian was twenty metres from the barrier, he slammed on his brakes, and the jeep skidded to a squealing, crunching halt.
Julian shoved the door open, leapt out of the car and immediately threw his hands in the air as the pick-up truck screeched to a halt behind him and a dark shape ran through the dust towards him from the guard post. The dust swirled as he saw two men leap out of the pick-up truck, M16 assault rifles clutched in their hands. They ran towards him, but the guard from the post arrived first, stopping two metres away from Julian, training an enormous M4 carbine on his chest, and shouting at him through the cloud of orange dust.
“Down on the—”
“Code F-357-X!” Julian shouted, and even through the dust he saw the guard’s eyes widen. “I need you to take me to General Allen. Right now.”
The two men from the pick-up truck arrived at Julian’s side, and twisted his arms instantly behind his back. He bent forward as the pressure on his shoulders forced him down, but then the guard shouted for them to release him, and the pressure disappeared. He stood back up straight, and looked at the two men who had chased him along the road. They were standing still, looks of confusion on their faces, their eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.
Hired security, Julian thought. Thank God they recognise the chain of command.
The guard, who was still pointing his M4 at Julian, wore the dark blue uniform of the United States Air Force with the gold bars on his shoulders that denoted he was a Captain. He looked at the two perimeter guards, then barked at them.
“Get back in your vehicle!” he shouted. “Go back to your station and forget this ever happened! Do you understand?”
The two guards stared at him, then nodded their assent, anger and embarrassment written across their faces. They trudged back to their pick-up, and a moment later they were gone, back the way they had come.
“Thank you,” said Julian. “I need—”
“Shut up,” ordered the guard, the M4 pointing steadily at Julian’s heart. “If you move, I will shoot you. Is that clear?”
Julian nodded, his hands out in front of him, arms wide and submissive.
The guard moved his left hand from the rifle’s barrel, and pulled a radio from his belt. The gun didn’t so much as tremble as the Captain brought the handset to his ear, thumbed a button and repeated the code that Julian had given him. There was a burst of static and then a voice spoke to the guard, the words unclear to Julian, even with his trained ears. When the voice finished speaking, the Captain confirmed that he understood, then placed the radio back on his belt. He returned his hand to the M4, and looked at Julian with a professionally unreadable stare.
“You’re going to be collected,” the Captain said. “But make any sudden movement and I will shoot you. I don’t care who you are. Is that understood?”
Julian told him that it was. The two men stood, staring at each other, the dust that had clouded the road now swirling lazily round their ankles, and after no more than a couple of minutes, they heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle over the idling motor of Julian’s jeep. The vehicle, a sand-brown Humvee, roared round the corner and screeched to a halt.
A man wearing a plain black uniform that reflected no light, even under the blinding desert sun, stepped out, regarded Julian with a look of incredulity, as though he had half-believed that the collection order he had received had been a practical joke, and ordered the guard soldier to stand down. The man did so, shooting Julian an expression of deep distrust as he returned to the guard post.
“Come with me, please,” said the black-clad figure, and nodded at the Humvee.
Julian stepped forward without replying, and climbed into the vehicle.
They drove through the guard post and into the barren hills that surrounded the facility. The Humvee’s engine roared, a huge cloud of thick dust blowing up from the wide rear tyres as they made their way on to the dry expanse of Groom Lake. Suddenly it lay before them: the sprawling collection of towers, buildings and hangars that comprised the experimental base. They drove past it without stopping, skirting the edge of the enormous runway, and followed the dirt road round the mountains and on to Papoose Lake.
At the base of the hills alongside the lake, a wide opening had been carved into the ancient rock, leading to a cavernous hangar, a gleaming semi-circle of white concrete and silver steel. Beneath this, descending eighteen storeys below the desert floor, lay the facility that the ufologists referred to, in hushed tones, as S-4: the headquarters of National Security Division 9, the American supernatural enforcement Department that had been founded by Bertrand Willis in 1930.
The Humvee stopped inside the hangar, where a tall, powerfully built man in his late fifties was waiting for it. He was wearing the same all-black uniform as the driver, and carried himself with the upright demeanour of a lifelong soldier. He pushed his silver-grey hair back from his temples with one hand as he waited for the passenger to get out of the Humvee. Julian stepped out, smiled at the man and extended his hand. The grey-haired man pushed it aside, and embraced him in a crushing bear hug.
“Hello, Bob,” said Julian Carpenter. “It’s been a long time.”
“That it has,” replied General Robert Allen, the Director of NS9. “They told me you died.”
“Yes, sir. They thought I did.”
“I guess they were wrong then.”
“Yes, sir. About a lot of things.”
General Allen released his grip on Julian, took a step backwards and regarded him with a look of amazement on his face. “Is it really you?” he asked.
“It’s me, Bob,” replied Julian. “Really.”
“I believe you,” said General Allen, a grin on his face. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
He led Julian through the hangar, to the back wall where an enormous American eagle crest was bolted high above the floor, beneath which stood an iris-scanner sealed door. Allen lowered his eye to the scanner, waited for the green authorisation light to blink into life and pushed the heavy door open. They stepped through it and into a long grey corridor with an elevator at the end. As they walked down the corridor, Julian cast his mind back to the last time he had been in the NS9 facility.
God, 1985. That’s a lifetime ago.
They stepped into the elevator. General Allen keyed a button, and the car began to descend. The similarities between the NS9 base and the Loop were overwhelming, the result of the fact-finding mission Stephen Holmwood had sent Julian on more than two decades earlier. The Americans h
ad recently finished the purpose-built facility he was now standing in, and Julian had been blown away by the scale and implementation of their vision. He had returned to England with an exhaustive series of recommendations, and the renovations that had turned the Loop into the place it now was had begun the following month.
As the elevator descended, General Allen glanced at Julian twice before he eventually spoke.
“I never believed what they said about you,” he said, in a low voice. “About what they said you’d done. I never believed it.”
“It’s OK,” replied Julian, favouring the General with a warm smile. “Tom Morris framed me well. And Blacklight was hurting, after John and George died. I don’t blame them for what they did.”
The elevator slid to a halt, and the doors opened on a corridor that was an almost exact replica of the cellblock in the bowels of the Loop. Julian rounded on General Allen, his face colouring red with anger.
“What the hell is this, Bob?” he demanded.
“I have to put you in a cell, Julian,” replied Allen, gently. His hand moved almost imperceptibly nearer to the butt of the Glock pistol on his hip. “Until we get this all straightened out. You’re supposed to be dead and you just walked in out of the desert. What would you do if you were me?”
Julian’s anger subsided. “It’s OK,” he said. “I get it.”
The two men walked towards the security airlock that sealed off the twin rows of cells, and the NS9 Director asked the question he really wanted to know the answer to.
“The night you died, Julian. How did you—”
Julian interrupted him as they came to a halt outside a heavy metal door. “That’s going to have to wait, Bob. I’m sorry.”
General Allen nodded, and told Julian to step into the airlock. Julian did as he was told, felt the familiar moment of claustrophobia as the door sealed itself shut behind him, the rush of the gas as it billowed up from his ankles, and the sensation of relief as the second door opened, and he stepped through it. Thirty seconds later General Allen emerged from the same door, and they began to walk down the corridor.