It was after midnight. He suddenly thought of something that would make him feel better and dug his cell phone from his pocket. There was only one way to medicate this epidemic of a day. He took a breath and retrieved a number from the phone's address book. It rang through.
'Hello?' A woman's voice.
'Is this Lydia?'
Sweetly, 'Who wants to know?'
'It's Peter Benedict, from the Constellation, you know, Mr. Kemp's friend.'
'Area 51!' she squealed. 'Hi, Mark!'
'You remembered my real name.' This was good.
'Of course I do. You're my UFO buddy. I stopped working at McCarran, if you've been looking for me.'
'Yeah. I noticed you weren't there anymore.'
'I got a better day job in a clinic right off the Strip. I'm a receptionist. They do vasectomy reversals. I love it!'
'That's cool.'
'So what's up with you?'
'Yeah, well I was wondering if you were free tonight?'
'Honey, I'm never free, but if the question is whether I'm available, I wish I were. I'm just heading over to the Four Seasons for a rendezvous then I've got to get my beauty sleep. I need to be at the clinic early. I'm sorry.'
'Me too.'
'Oh, sweetie! You call me back soon, you promise? Give me a little more notice and we can definitely hook up.'
'Sure.'
'You say hello to our little green friends, okay?'
He sat for a while longer and, thoroughly defeated, let it happen, succumbing to the emerging plan that was galvanizing in his mind. He'd need to find something first. What had he done with that business card? He knew he'd kept it, but where? He went searching, urgently covering all the usual places until he finally found it under a pile of clean socks in his dresser. NELSON G. ELDER, CHAIRMAN AND CEO,
DESERT LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY
His laptop was in the living room. Eagerly, he Googled Nelson G. Elder and started absorbing information like a sponge. His company, Desert Life, was publicly traded and had been tanking, its stock near a five-year low. The Yahoo message boards were awash in investor vitriol. Nelson Elder was not beloved by his shareholders and many had graphic suggestions about what he could do with his $8.6 million compensation package. Mark visited the company's website and clicked through to the corporate securities filings. He scrolled though screens of legalese and financials. He was an experienced small-time investor, familiar with corporate documents. Before long he had a comprehensive understanding of Desert Life's business model and financial condition.
He slapped the laptop shut. In a flash the plan rushed in, fully formed, every detail in vivid clarity. He blinked in recognition of its perfection.
I'm going to do it, he thought bitterly. I'm going to fucking do it! Years of frustration had built up like hot, gassy magma. Fuck the lifetime of inadequacies. Fuck the truckloads of jealousies and yearnings. And fuck the years of living under the weight of the Library. Vesuvius was blowing! He looked again at the reunion photograph and stared icily at Will's ruggedly handsome face. And fuck you too.
Every journey begins somewhere. Mark's began with a furious rummage through one of his kitchen drawers, the overstuffed one where he kept a grab bag of old computer components. Before he collapsed onto his bed, he found precisely what he was looking for.
At seven-thirty the next morning he was softly snoring at fifteen thousand feet. He rarely slept on his short commute to Area 51, but hadn't gotten to bed until very late. Below him the land was yellow and deeply fissured. From the air, the ridge of a long low mountain range resembled the spine of a desiccated reptile. The 737 had only been airborne for twelve minutes on its northwesterly course and it was already starting its approach. The plane looked like a stick of candy against the hazy blue sky, a white body with a nose-to-tail cheerful red stripe, the colors of the long defunct Western Airlines co-opted by the defense contractor EG amp;G for its Las Vegas shuttle fleet. The tail numbers were registered to the U.S. Navy.
Descending toward the military field, the copilot radioed, 'JANET 4 requesting clearance to land at Groom Lake, Runway 14 left.'
JANET. Radio call sign for Joint Air Network for Employee Transport. A spook name. The commuters called it otherwise: Just Another Non-Existent Terminal.
On wheels down, Mark awoke with a start. The plane braked hard and he instinctively pushed against his heels to take the pressure off his seat belt. He raised the window shade and squinted at the sun-baked scrubby terrain. He felt cramped and uncomfortable, sick to his stomach, and wondered if he looked as strange as he felt.
'Thought I was going to have to nudge you.'
Mark turned to the fellow in the middle seat. He was from Russian Archives, a guy with a fat tush named Jacobs. 'No need,' Mark said as matter-of-factly as he could. 'I'm good to go.'
'Never saw you sleep on the flight before,' the man observed.
Was Jacobs really from Archives? Mark shrugged it off. Don't be paranoid, he thought. Of course he is. None of the watchers had fat asses. They were nimble sorts.
Before they were permitted to go subterranean, deep into the cool earth, the 635 employees of Groom Lake Building 34-commonly called, the Truman Building-had to endure one of their two dreaded rituals of the day, the S amp;S, aka strip 'n' scan. When the buses dropped them off at the hangarlike structure, the sexes split toward separate entrances. Inside each section of the building were long rows of lockers reminiscent of a suburban high school. Mark walked briskly to his locker, which was halfway down the long corridor. Many of his coworkers were perfectly happy to dawdle and make it through scanning at the last possible moment, but today he was in a hurry to get underground.
He spun the combination lock, stripped down to his briefs, and hung his clothes on hooks. A fresh olive jumpsuit with SHACKLETON, M. embroidered on the breast pocket was neatly folded on the locker bench. He threw it on; the days were long gone when employees could wear street clothes into the facility. Every item a Building 34 employee brought on the commute had to be left in the lockers. Up and down the line, books, magazines, pens, cell phones, and wallets were shelved. Mark moved fast and got himself near the front of the scanning line.
The magnetometer was flanked by two watchers, humorless young men with buzz cuts who waved each employee through with a clipped military gesture. Mark waited, next up for the scan. He noticed that Malcolm Frazier, Chief of Operational Security, the head watcher, was nearby, checking on the morning scan. He was a fearsome hunk of a man with the grotesquely muscular body and rectangular head of a cartoon-book villain. Mark had exchanged few words with Frazier over the years, even though the watchers had input into some of his protocols. He would duck behind his group director and let her run interference with Frazier and his lot. Frazier was ex-military, ex-special ops, and his surly testosterone-seeped visage scared him silly. As a habit, Mark avoided eye contact, and today in particular he lowered his head when he felt the man's penetrating gaze upon him.
The scan had a singular purpose: to prevent any photographic or recording devices from entering the facility. In the morning, employees went through the scanners clothed. At the end of the day, they went back through buck naked since scanners couldn't detect paper. Underground was sterile ground. Nothing came in, nothing came out.
Building 34 was the most sterile complex in the United States. It was staffed by employees who had been selected by a cadre of Department of Defense recruiters who didn't have the slightest clue about the nature of the work for which they were recruiting. They only knew the skill set that was required. At the second or third round of interviews they were allowed to reveal that the job involved Area 51, and then only with the permission of their superiors. Inevitably the recruiters were then asked, 'You mean the place they keep aliens and UFOs?' to which
