Area 51 (3 page)

"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 apprecitate 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.

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 themajor 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 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.

To all of Turcotte's questions Duncan had been evasive. She couldn't tell him what he was supposed to be looking for. Since she was on the Majic-12

council, that made him suspicious. She had not even told him why he was being selected. Turcotte wondered if it had anything to do with what had just happened in Germany. Beyond that wondering, the naturally suspicious part of his mind, which years of work in Special Operations had cultivated, wondered if Lisa Duncan was who she said she was, regardless of her fancy ID card. This might be some sort of test of his loyalty set up by Delta Operations itself.

Duncan had told him he was not to inform anyone of his meeting with her, but that had immediately put him in a bind the minute he had met Prague at the Las Vegas airport. Withholding that information meant he was already in subtle conflict with his new organization, not a good way to start an assignment. What was real and what wasn't, Turcotte didn't know. He'd decided on the plane from Washington to Las Vegas to do what Duncan had said, keep his eyes and ears open, his mouth shut, and ride whatever roller coaster he had been put onto until he could make up his own mind.

Turcotte had expected to be driven straight out to Nellis Air Force Base from the airfield. That was the destination listed on his orders. To his surprise they had taken a cab downtown and checked into a hotel. Actually they hadn't checked in, they'd walked right past the desk and taken an elevator directly up to the room, which had a numerical keypad instead of a traditional lock. Prague punched in the code.

Prague had shrugged at Turcotte's concern about reporting in to Nellis, as they entered the lavishly furnished suite.

"Don't sweat it. We'll get you in tomorrow. And you're not going to Nellis.

You'll find out, meat."

"What's with this room?" Turcotte asked, noting the meat comment. It was a term used for new replacements to combat units that had suffered high casualties.

Certainly not the situation he was in now, at least he hoped not.

There was only one other way to decipher the phrase, as a slam. Turcotte didn't know why Prague would do that except to test his tolerance levels, which was an accepted practice in elite units. Except it usually involved professional tests of physical or mental capabilities, not insults.

Of course, Turcotte knew there might be another reason for Prague's attitude: maybe he knew about the meeting in Washington and it had been a test. Or, that Duncan was for real and Prague knew Turcotte was a plant. All this thinking about plots within plots gave Turcotte a headache. Prague threw himself down on the sofa. "We have all these rooms on a permanent basis for R and R when we come into town. We get taken care of real well, as long as we don't screw up.

And no drinking. Even on R and R. We always have to be ready."

"For what?" Turcotte asked, dropping his large kit bag and walking over to the window to look out at the neon display of Las Vegas.

"For whatever, meat," Prague returned easily. "We fly out of McCarren on Janet tomorrow morning."

"Janet?" Turcotte asked.

"A 737. Goes out every morning to the Area with the contract workers and us."

"What exactly is my job and-- ' Turcotte paused as a loud chirping filled the air and Prague pulled a beeper off his belt. He turned off the noise and checked the small LED screen.

"Looks like you're about to find out," Prague said, standing. "Grab your gear.

We're going back to the airport now. Recall."

NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE RESERVATION

T-143 HOURS

"I wonder what their electric bill is?" Simmons muttered, staring out across the dry lake bed at the brilliantly lit complex nestled up against the base of the Groom Mountain Range. He put his binoculars to his eyes and took in the hangars, towers, and antennas all laid out alongside the extremely long runway.

"Looks like you might have come on a good night,"

Franklin commented, sitting down with his back against a boulder. They'd arrived at the top of White Sides Mountain ten minutes earlier and settled in on the edge of the mountaintop, overlooking the lake bed.

"Might just be for the C-130's," Simmons commented.

The transport planes were parked near a particularly large hangar and there was some activity going on around them. He focused the glasses. "They're not unloading," he said. "They're loading something onto the planes. Looks like a couple of helicopters."

"Helicopters?" Franklin repeated. "Let me see." He took the binoculars and looked for a few minutes. "I've seen one of those type of choppers before.

Painted all black. The big one is a UH-60 Blackhawk. The two little ones I don't know. They fly UH-60's around here for security. I had one buzz my truck one day down on the mailboxroad."

"Where do you think they're taking them?" Simmons asked, taking the binoculars back.

"I don't know."

"Something's going on," Simmons said.

MCCARREN FIELD, LAS VEGAS

T-142 HOURS, 45 MINUTES

The 737 had no markings on it other than a broad red band painted down the outside. It was parked behind a Cyclone fence with green stripping run through the chain links to discourage observers. Turcotte carried his kit bag right on board after Prague joked that they could carry any damn thing they wanted onto this flight--there was no baggage check.