on earth, the idea that the military could keep such a secret for half a century defied belief.

The one part of the story he did believe, however, was that the security forces at Area 51 were authorized to use deadly force. He had no idea if this directive had ever been needed, but he’d heard of cases where backpackers and aircraft watchers were escorted from the region by hard-looking well-armed men they’d derisively dubbed Cammo Dudes.

The window shade snapped closed like a guillotine. When Mercer looked up, Captain Sykes’s eyes held equal measures of displeasure and resignation. “You shouldn’t have done that, Doc.”

Before Sykes could say anything further, the copilot emerged from the cockpit. “Captain, a word.”

Sykes joined him at the front of the cabin and listened for several seconds. He nodded once then returned to his seat. The copilot closed the cockpit door behind himself.

Before sitting, Sykes reached into an overhead storage bin. He retrieved a helmet and tossed it onto Mercer’s lap. It resembled a welder’s helmet, but the face shield was completely opaque. With it on Mercer wouldn’t be able to see a thing. “You’re going to have to put that on when we land,” Sykes said.

“Captain, I know where we are. Is this really necessary?”

“If you pretend you don’t know where we’re landing, I don’t have to pretend to fill out a ton of useless reports. Call it a favor. Seems we’ve hit a bit of head-wind on our way here. Usually we’d land and you’d be transferred to a blacked-out van. But we’ve missed our schedule, and in about ten minutes a Russian spy satellite will be passing overhead. We’re going to be landing normally, but we’ll taxi straight into one of the hangars.” Sykes’s voice took on an earnest tone. “Security at this installation is the tightest in the world, Doc. Standing orders are to shoot first and don’t worry about the questions afterward. You reading me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m telling you this to save your life. When we get off this aircraft, I’ll guide you along. Do not remove that helmet. You do and they won’t just pull a gun on you. They’ll drop you where you stand.”

Mercer let a sarcastic retort die on his lips. Sykes was telling him this for his own good. He twisted the clumsy-looking helmet on his lap. “Just tell me when to put it on.”

The plane continued its descent, leaving the glare of Las Vegas a hundred miles astern, and made its approach on the longest runway in the world, a strip of reinforced concrete more than twice the length needed to accommodate the space shuttle. The Gulfstream touched down more gently than any commercial flight Mercer had ever been on. In a race to hide from the spy satellite coming over the horizon, her engines barely seemed to slow as the pilot looped them across the apron for a distant hangar.

The sudden deceleration when the aircraft reached its destination chirped rubber from the tires and jolted Mercer in his seat. The executive jet seesawed on its landing gear as the engines wound to silence.

“Okay, Doc, might as well get that face shield on,” Sykes suggested. “I’ll take care of your bag.”

Mercer slipped into his jacket and settled the helmet on his head. His world went gray. The lack of vision was momentarily disorienting. Not until he tipped his head back could he see the tops of his shoes and the plush carpet. “Feels like we’re going to play a bizarre game of pin the tail on the donkey.”

Sykes laughed. “So long as the guards don’t play pin the nine millimeter on the geologist. Okay, come toward my voice. There’s enough headroom so you don’t need to duck. That’s good. All right, turn here. You’re almost at the boarding stairs. There’s four of them to the tarmac.”

Sensing a change in lighting as he neared the exit, Mercer paused, gave Sykes’s warning a half second’s consideration, and pulled the helmet from his head.

What he saw took his breath away.

The hangar was several orders of magnitude larger than the one at Andrews, lit with powerful lights recessed in the ceiling ten stories over his head. The huge doors, easily large enough to accommodate a commercial airliner, had already closed behind the Gulfstream. It wasn’t the building’s multiacre dimensions that caught his attention; they barely made an impression. Nor did the matte-black snout of a B-2 Stealth bomber as it loomed like some nightmare creature, its knife-edge silhouette interrupted only by the integrated engine nacelles and her two-man cockpit.

What drew his attention was the saucer-shaped aircraft hovering a short distance to his left. The craft floated soundlessly a couple feet above the concrete floor. It was just there, impossibly hanging in space. The saucer was roughly thirty feet in diameter and maybe eight feet tall, composed of a silvery material with a sleek texture.

Then Mercer did a double take and burst out laughing even as Sykes came bundling up behind him. What he thought was alien writing on the side of the aircraft was actually a very stylized font that spelled out ACME SAUCER COMPANY. The hovering disc was an elaborate model, some technician’s idea of a joke. The cables suspending it from the ceiling became apparent when Mercer looked for them.

There was no sign of the armed security Sykes had warned him about.

Who was waiting there made Mercer do his second double take. Ira Lasko stood off to the side with a woman in a white lab coat. They were beyond easy conversation range, so Mercer turned his head to address Sykes. “Thought you’d never met Ira.”

Sykes shrugged. “Hell, I’m not really your escort either. Admiral Lasko sent me to D.C. yesterday and I just happened to catch this flight back.”

Mercer descended the boarding stairs and crossed the fifty feet to Ira. The deputy national security advisor was in his mid-fifties, painfully thin, but with unbelievable strength for his size. He kept his head completely shaved in a tactical retreat from pattern baldness. It leant him a determined air that augmented his pugnacious jaw and penetrating mind. His eyes were a watchful brown under silvering brows. He wasn’t particularly tall at five feet seven, but his authority was not in doubt.

Ira wore khaki pants, a matching shirt and a Navy bomber jacket. The temperature in the hangar barely reached fifty degrees. Despite its desert location, Area 51 lay nearly five thousand feet above sea level.

“I told the security chief that you wouldn’t wear the helmet if the plane had to park in here.” Ira waved toward the far side of the hangar, where futuristic-looking shapes — aircraft, no doubt — were hidden under large tarps. “That’s why the really interesting stuff was covered up.”

Mercer’s anger at the tactics to get him here had been replaced by a sense of awe. He was being granted a peek at the innermost sanctum of government secrecy. If the conspiracy nuts were correct, things went on here even the president didn’t know about. Still, he wouldn’t give Ira the satisfaction of showing that the surroundings had shaken his composure. He took Ira’s proffered hand. “Are you going to explain why you felt it necessary to have me shanghaied? A phone call and a plane ticket to Vegas would have sufficed.”

“I’ve been calling your place for two days,” Ira replied. “I didn’t leave a message because Harry kept answering the phone.” He and Harry had swapped war stories on several occasions. Ira had spent his early naval career aboard submarines, and Harry had spent his dodging them in the Pacific. “You think if I let on that you were coming here that he wouldn’t be on the next plane out?”

Mercer couldn’t deny that possibility, no, inevitability. “Maybe he should be out here. Don’t forget, he saved my ass in Panama last fall.”

“And ran up about six grand in gambling debts on your credit card.”

Mercer’s smile turned to a frown. Ten thousand was closer to the truth.

“Besides,” Ira continued, “you won’t need him watching your back. You’re out here for a straightforward job. Nothing fancy, but something you’re eminently qualified for. A job that we consider vital.”

Mercer cocked an eyebrow. “We?”

Ira turned to the woman standing at his side. “This is Dr. Briana Marie. She’s heading the project. She’ll explain everything.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” Mercer shook the petite brunette’s hand. She wore no makeup; her girl- next-door appeal didn’t need any. He laughed to himself when she used her left hand to unnecessarily wipe at the lapel of her lab coat. Her wedding ring flashed in the bright light. Then he considered the situation from her perspective. There were probably a hundred men for every woman here and an early declaration of her marital status must have become habit. “Are you an M.D.?”

“Nuclear physicist,” she replied in a remarkably deep voice.

The answer surprised Mercer. He looked to Ira.

“A lot more than testing aircraft takes place here,” the admiral explained. “All of it under complete compartmentalization. Hell, I only know a few things under development and I’m on the president’s staff.”

“A case of the right hand not knowing what the left is up to?” Mercer joked.

Вы читаете Deep Fire Rising
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