The Rock (29 page)

“Victor Six, this is Dreamland Control. You will return to Nellis Airfield immediately. The exercise is canceled. All aircraft are ordered grounded immediately. You will remain in your plane until cleared by security personnel. Over.”

“I want to know the status of Two Three. Over.”

“We’ve lost Two Three from our scope. We are initiating search and rescue. Comply with orders. There are to be no more transmissions. Out.”

The recording ended. Kelly sat still for a few seconds, considering what she had heard. She knew the name Dreamland well. She picked up Simmons’s letter.

Yeah, I know exactly what you’re thinking, Kelly. It could be a hoax or a setup like they did to you. But I talked to a friend of mine over at the local Air Force base. He said that some of that sky out there near Nellis is the most restricted airspace in the country, even more so than that over the White House in D.C. He also said that pilots in the Red Flag exercises sometimes try to skate the edges of their aerial playing field on the regular Nellis Range and gain a tactical advantage by cutting across the restricted airspace. If that pilot did wander over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex or try to cut a corner, he might have seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Obviously he ran into something.

You know me. I’m heading out there to take a look. There’s enough interest in all of this that even if I get nothing about the pilot, I ought to at least be able to write a couple of articles about the Groom Lake complex. Maybe Technical or some other science-type magazine will buy.

So I’ll be out there on the night of the ninth. I plan on being back home the tenth. I don’t want to hang around there any longer than I have to. I’ll give you a call, regardless, on the tenth by nine in the morning. At the absolute least if I can’t quite make it home by then I’ll change the message on my voicemail by remote before 9:00
A.M
. on the tenth.

I know all this sounds melodramatic, but when I went down to El Salvador—a place no one remembers nowadays—it stood me in good stead to have someone waiting on a call. Held the assholes off from beating me too bad or keeping me forever when I got caught in places I wasn’t supposed to be. So if you don’t hear from me by 9:00
A.M
. on the tenth, it means I got caught. Then I trust you to figure out what to do. You owe me, bud!

Wish me luck. By the way, if by chance—da-da-de- dum—drumroll, please, I get scarfed up by the authorities, you have a copy of the CD and the letter, and also I’ve enclosed a key to my apartment.

Thanks.

All of my love, all of my kisses!

Johnny

Kelly didn’t need to check the calendar. The ninth was this evening. She gathered the tape out of her stereo and took it, along with the letters, to her desk. Then she used the key around her neck to open the file drawer. She withdrew a file labeled “Nellis” and laid it on the desktop.

Flipping it open, she saw that the first document inside was a typed letter on official Air Force stationery. The signature block at the bottom indicated it was from the Public Affairs Officer at the base: Major Prague.

“Asshole,” Kelly muttered as she remembered the man. She place Johnny Simmons’s letter and the tape inside, then replaced the folder in the drawer and locked it. The surface of the desk was clear, except for a silver-framed black-and-white photo of a young man dressed in khaki. He wore a black beret, with a Sten gun slung over his shoulder.

She was thoughtful as she kicked back in her chair and considered the photo. “Sounds like Johnny has nibbled at the hook, Dad.” She tapped a pencil against her lip, then sighed. “Damn you, Johnny. You’re always causing trouble, but this time I think you may have gone too far.”

Nellis Air Force Base Range, 

Vicinity Groom Lake T—144 Hours

“Wait here,” Franklin ordered as he brought the battered Bronco II to a halt. There was no flash of brake lights. He had pulled the fuse for them prior to turning onto this dirt road. Johnny Simmons leaned forward in the passenger seat and squinted into the darkness. He had to assume that Franklin was so familiar with the road that he was able to drive it without headlights. Although the road did stand out as a lighter straight line on the otherwise dark ground, the trip was unnerving.

Simmons rubbed his forehead. They were at several thousand feet in altitude and he felt a bit of a headache from the thinner air. He was a tall, thin man, his pale skin liberally sprinkled with freckles. Simmons appeared to be much younger than his thirty-eight years and his disheveled mane of bright red hair only added to the youthful image.

Franklin walked to one side of the road and disappeared into the darker countryside for a few minutes, then his shadow crossed the road and was gone for a few more minutes. When he returned, he was holding four short green plastic rods in his hands.

“Antennas for the sensors,” he explained. “I found the sensors last month. I wondered why the camo dudes were always onto me so quick. They’d show up within twenty minutes of my hitting this road. Then they’d call in the sheriff and it was just a plain hassle.”

“How’d you find the detectors?” Simmons asked, covertly making sure the voice-activated recorded on the iPhone in his jacket pocket was turned on.

“I used a receiver that scanned the band lengths. I drove around and stopped when I picked up something transmitting,” Franklin said. “Right at 495.45 megahertz.”

“Why four antennas?” Simmons asked. “Wouldn’t two do?”

Franklin shook his head. “They’re deployed in pairs on either side of the road. That way they can tell which way you’re going by the order they’re tripped in.” Franklin talked quickly, eager to impress Simmons with his knowledge.

The simple logic quieted Simmons for a few moments. For the first time he wondered if he was biting off more than he could chew here. Since Area 51 wasn’t listed on any topographic maps, and all roads leading onto the Nellis Reservation were posted with no trespassing signs with ominous threats printed in red, Simmons had sought help. He’d met Franklin in Rachel, a small town on Route 375 that ran along the northeast side of the Nellis Reservation. Franklin was the person he’d been pointed to by “experts” in the UFO field as the man to see about getting a look at Area 51, the place the Air Force pilot had been overflying when he’d been accosted by Dreamland Control and whatever unknown object the pilot had seen.

Simmons hadn’t been too surprised to find Franklin a young bearded man who looked more like he ought to be doing poetry reading at a college than leading people to look at a classified government facility. Franklin worked out of a small, dilapidated house where he self-published a monthly newsletter for UFO enthusiasts. He’d been thrilled when he’d seen Simmons’s credentials and publishing history. At last someone with a little bit of credibility and pull, had been the way Franklin had put it, and he’d promised to put Simmons as close to Area 51, the code name for the Groom Lake complex, as he possibly could.

Simmons wondered if Franklin might not be the “Captain” who had sent him the tape and letter, but he didn’t think so. There didn’t seem to be any need for the subterfuge, and Franklin had seemed genuinely surprised to see him. They’d passed the “mailbox” farther back on the dirt road about twenty minutes ago and there had been two cars and a van parked there. UFO watchers had waved at the Bronco as they drove by. The mailbox, which was an actual small battered metal mailbox on the side of the road, was the last safe place to observe the sky over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex. To Johnny it was obvious that the watchers there weren’t surprised to see Franklin’s truck drive by.

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 got 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 shots back at the office that I’ve already taken of the complex. They were taken in daylight, with a better camera than you have. Much better than you could get at night even with night vision 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 show-time 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 camera 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 going 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.