Area 51: The Sphinx-4 (8 page)

Turcotte had never learned if the craft had gotten that nickname because the people inside could get bounced about so badly or because the craft seemed to literally bounce off an unseen wall when changing direction. The propulsion system was something else that Majestic-12 had been unable to reverse-engineer despite decades of trying. They had determined that it worked off the planet's magnetic field, and Turcotte knew from personal experience that the bouncers lost power if they were too far from the planet's surface, but beyond that, they could not duplicate or reverse-engineer a working model.

A hatch on the top of the bouncer swung up and a slight figure climbed out, then down the side of the craft. Turcotte ran forward and handed Duncan a set of goggles, which she pulled down over her eyes.

"The Cube isn't secure yet?" She was between the two men, their bodies giving her some relief from the dust storm.

"Quinn said any minute now." Turcotte held up a cell phone. "He'll call us when it's ready."

Duncan nodded. "Good, I Wanted to talk to just the two of you alone first anyway." She looked past them at the ruins of the hangar. "I had a private meeting with the President just before coming here. Cutting through the political double-talk the bottom line is we're on our own. The destruction of the two space shuttles has shaken the entire administration. Everyone's afraid to

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find out how deeply we've been infiltrated by either the alien representatives—the Guides/Mission and The Ones Who Wait/STAAR—or the human group, the Watchers.

Losing Warfighter and having it used against us was the final straw."

"Who directed Warfighter to attack the talon?" Turcotte asked.

"The President acceded to the demands of his National Security Council to have Warfighter target the talon. Payback for the destruction of Columbia. It didn't work the way they had planned. Now they're afraid of two things. One is that Warfighter can hit any target on the face of the planet. I think the President has visions of a laser blast right through the roof of the Oval Office. The other is they don't want to admit Warfighter exists. There's already infighting at UNAOC and among the members of the Security Council. The Russians and Chinese might walk out if they know we put a weapon into space two years ago."

"So, as usual, they hide the truth?" Turcotte asked.

"Did you expect something to change?" Duncan asked. "I also met with Peter Sterling, the head of the United Nations Alien Oversight Committee, in New York, and he said pretty much the same thing as the President. He's trying to build a coalition, but he's fighting the Security Council the whole way."

The bouncer had lifted and floated past them, entering Hangar One, sliding between the large doors that just as quickly shut behind it. Turcotte felt very vulnerable- standing with Yakov and Duncan on, the edge-of the runway, the dust storm limiting their world to a small circle of concrete. He could understand the President's fear. A -weapon floating above their heads in space that could strike down at any moment was unnerving.

It went beyond that, though, for him. He'd expected bad news from Duncan's.

Washington and New York

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meetings, but a small part of him had hoped that someone in the administration or at the United Nations would step forward and take the lead. Duncan's next words effectively quashed that hope.

"The isolationists control both the House and the Senate, which limits the President's options, and China has veto power in the Security Council, which hamstrings UNAOC from taking action. Since most actions up to now have occurred away from U.S. soil—meaning primarily the Black Death in South America, Qian-Ling in China, the Airlia at Cydonia on Mars, and the shield surrounding Easter Island—the feeling in the States seems to be that if we stick our heads in the sand, nothing bad will happen if we don't see it."

"You Americans," Yakov growled. "You entered the Great Patriotic War only after millions of my countrymen were dead at the hands of the Nazis, France was overrun, and England was teetering on the edge of collapse. And then it took a direct attack against your base in Pearl Harbor to get you off the fence and into the fight. What will it take this time? This is a world problem. One that the oceans on either side of your country will not keep at arm's reach."

A strong gust of wind hit them, staggering Duncan into Turcotte, who steadied her with an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm telling you the reality of the situation," Duncan shouted. "We can stand here and argue how screwed up it is until we're blue in the face, but it's not going to change anything. The isolationists have a very persuasive argument, using the facts we've given them regarding the Airlia being on the planet so long. The point they make is that if the Airlia and their human agents have existed peacefully with us for so long, why not go back to the status quo?"

"That's bull," Turcotte said. "Majestic trying to fly the

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mothership upset the balance, and it's never going to be restored. This is a fight to the end."

"I know that, and that's why I'm here," Duncan said. The bottom line is that we're on our own. I have the same presidential authorization to gain us aid from whatever government organization we need, but that's it. We also have some support from Sterling at UNAOC, but that will be limited, as even UNAOC is being pressured to toe the isolationist line. And we have to be covert about any actions we take, not only because of the isolationists but also to steer clear of The Mission, the Watchers, and The Ones Who Wait. Just be glad the President didn't shut us down."

"Would that have been so bad?" Turcotte muttered, the words unheard by the other two.

"Official policy right now," Duncan yelled, "is to gather information but take no direct action."

"That's crap," Turcotte said. "We're sticking our necks out and getting no support." He pointed at the ruins of the hangar. "We lost eight people in there."

"I know—and that's being kept under wraps also. I did get us some backup,"

Duncan said.

"Who?" Turcotte asked.

"A Special Forces team straight from Bragg. Your friend Colonel Mickell handpicked the team, so they should be good. They're en route now. We're to use them as we see fit."

"No limitations?" Turcotte asked. "Like national boundaries?"

"Unofficially, no limitations," Duncan said. "Officially, if we screw up, it's our ass on the line."

"Great," Turcotte said. His phone buzzed, and he flipped it open, one hand over his free ear so he could hear, then shut it. "Quinn says the Cube is secure and clear of any surveillance devices. Let's get inside, get you cleaned up, then figure out what we're going to do."

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"There's something else," Duncan said.

"What?"

She reached into her coat and pulled out a piece of paper that the wind tried to rip from her grasp. "We've heard from Easter Island."

"The guardian?" Turcotte asked.

"The message is apparently from Kelly Reynolds—or whatever Kelly has become now."

KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, FLORIDA

The security guard flashed his light at the ID card, then checked the face of the holder to make sure the two matched. The security rating on the card was the highest possible in the dark world of covert operations. The organization listed was the Central Intelligence Agency.

The owner of the card did ostensibly work for the CIA, but in reality he was a member of STAAR, which stood for Strategic Tactical Advanced Alien Response.

Founded by President Eisenhower, the organization had been set up to be a coordinating group for response to a potential alien assault—given the fact that aliens had indeed visited Earth in the past, as evidenced by what Majestic-12

was working with at Area 51. In reality, though, STAAR was a front organization in America for The Ones Who Wait, allowing it to infiltrate the government bureaucracy at every level. It was the way of bureaucracy and the compartmentalization of the covert world that the correct piece of paper or security clearance could override every suspicion for decades.

The operative's code name was Etor, and he quickly strode past the guard and toward the VAB—vehicle assembly building—a towering edifice five, hundred and twenty-five feet tall and covering eight acres of land, one of the largest buildings in the world. The VAB was designed to withstand winds of up to 125

miles per hour. Its

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foundation rested on 4,200 steel pilings 16 inches in diameter driven down 160

feet to bedrock.

Etor had first visited the facility when it was named Cape Canaveral. The VAB

was originally designed for the assembly of the massive Saturn launch vehicles.

It had since been modified to support the assembly of the space shuttle.

Etor watched as the high bay door, 456 feet high, rumbled to a halt, opening the spacious interior to the warm night air carried by the ocean breeze. The space shuttle Atlantis, mated with its external fuel tank and two solid rockets, stood vertical on top of the crawler-transporter. With a very slight jar, the huge treads on the crawler began moving, edging the entire shuttle system on its mobile launcher platform out of the VAB.

Although the final destination was in sight, it would take the crawler six hours to make the short distance to the point from which the shuttle would be launched. Normally when a shuttle was moved at night, spotlights highlighted the procedure, providing a spectacle to the American public whose tax dollars funded the entire operation. This night, though, the movement was being made in blackout conditions. All roads around the space center had been blocked off since nightfall, reducing spectators to the security personnel and technicians involved—and those with the proper security clearance.

With the destruction of the shuttles Endeavour and Columbia, Atlantis, quickly brought out of a retrofit, was the only spaceworthy manned craft left in the inventory; The shuttle Discovery had been stripped down to the bone for an extensive rebuilding, and it was estimated that even at breakneck speed—a term astronauts didn't want to hear when someone was talking about working on a vehicle they would be riding in—it would take over a month to get it ready for flight.

The transporter was 131 feet long by 114 wide. It

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moved on four double-tracked crawlers, each 10 feet high and 41 feet long. Just one of the track shoes weighed 2,000 pounds. With a maximum speed of one mile per hour, Atlantis cleared the VAB doors and the treads slowly crunched their way toward Launch Complex 39-A, which was 3.4 miles away. Etor turned and walked toward one of the old launch sites, half a mile away from the road, easily outpacing the shuttle on its path.

He climbed down a rusting iron staircase into an old observation bunker, his feet splashing through water that had accumulated on the concrete floor. He leaned on a ledge, peering through a narrow slit at the black silhouette of the moving shuttle. He pulled out a small black box and pressed the on button.

"It is moving," he reported.

"Do you know the mission profile?" the voice on the other end asked.

"The cover story is deployment of two surveillance satellites. The reality is that the payload consists of the latest generation of Warfighter satellite. They want to put it in orbit and take out the Warfighter you control."

"That is unacceptable." There was a short pause. "I have a lock on target. Out here."

"Out," Etor acknowledged, putting the communicator back in his pocket.

The transporter was less than a quarter mile from the VAB when a flash of light streaked down from above and hit the top of the external. fuel tank. The laser beam ignited the five hundred thousand gallons of liquid oxygen and hydrogen.

The resulting explosion not only obliterated Atlantis, it took out the vehicle assembly building. Windows as far away as ten miles were blown, and the shock wave from the explosion was heard in Orlando, forty miles away.

Etor had ducked down, deep inside the shelter, but

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even there the passing blast wave sucked the air out of his lungs. He waited a few seconds, then stood and looked out. There was nothing where the shuttle had been.

THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON,

RUWENZORI, UGANDA

Professor Mualama took another deep drink from the canteen looped over his shoulder and looked up at the wall of heavy clouds that blocked the sky to the west as he spoke. He was a continent away from South America, but once more deep inside an uninhabited wilderness.

"The Greek historian Herodotus, visiting Egypt in 547 B.C., was told that the source of the Nile was a bottomless lake set among tall, whitecapped mountains astride the equator. He thought the story was outrageous, but—and this is a valuable lesson for you. Nephew—he wrote it down anyway."

The young man whom Mualama had just addressed was a bit worse for wear. Peter Lago's khaki shirt was streaked with salt stains. His arms were covered with scratches and his muscles ached from the eight-hour march since leaving the last sign of civilization in Kasese, Uganda. They'd been climbing up a one-track trail since getting off the plane on the unfinished dirt strip in the town, and as far as Lago could tell, they were heading into the clouds. His uncle had set an unrelenting pace, in a rush since having Lago pick him up at the airport in Dar es Salaam the previous evening, hiring a bush pilot to fly them illegally into Uganda, and setting off on the trail.

Lago—a former archaeology student at Dar es Salaam—had worked with his uncle on, digs before. East Africa was where many of the oldest fossils attributable

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to genus Homo had been found. The two had spent several summers working at the established digs in the Olduvai Gorge of Tanzania, where a fossil of Homo habilis had been found that had been dated back two million years. Homo habilis was the true beginning of the lineage of current man, and so few fossils had been found that any discovery was significant.

Lago considered his uncle a very strange man with eclectic interests. Both ancient man and modern history mesmerized his uncle—he was a scientist who believed in knowing one's facts, yet he also collected every piece of legend and mythology he could find.