Once they were finished, they headed north, taking first the 405 freeway, then Highway 14 into the upper Mojave Desert.
About two and a half hours into the trip, a desert valley opened up off to their right.
“According to the map, that should be China Lake,” Nate said, then paused for a moment. “Everything’s so … tan. Summers here must be killers.”
“I think there’s a certain beauty to it,” Orlando said.
“Sure. Okay, if you say so,” Nate said. “Anyway, when the government controlled Yellowhammer, the navy station at China Lake had administrative jurisdiction.”
They fell silent again as they transitioned onto Highway 395 and left the desert for the higher-elevation scrubland that would be with them the rest of the way. Outside, the temperature dropped a few degrees every twenty minutes. At this time of year it wasn’t a drastic difference, but Quinn knew that unlike the desert they’d just passed through, this area would be touched by snow a few times every winter. Perhaps not a lot, but enough. And with the new valley being so narrow, Quinn could imagine winds whipping between the mountain ranges, making life miserable.
It took another hour before they passed a sign indicating they were a few miles from the town of Lone Pine. That got everyone moving. Lone Pine was the gateway to the Alabama Hills and would serve as their base.
Here the Sierra Nevada felt like an impenetrable rock wall miles high, its jagged skyline daring anyone to try and cross it. One of the peaks, Quinn wasn’t sure which, was Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the lower forty-eight states. It was rugged country, and, on that aspect alone, the perfect place to build a facility you didn’t want anyone to know about.
To Quinn it looked just like what it was, a sleepy town of around two thousand, living off the tourists who came to see the mountains or were passing through on their way to the Mammoth Mountain Ski Resort another two hours farther north. The highway acted as Main Street, and played host to most of the businesses Lone Pine had to offer. A grocery store, a few bars, some restaurants, a couple of gas stations.
“There’s the motel,” Nate said, pointing ahead and to the right.
Quinn saw it. The Dow Villa Motel. Nate had made reservations before they left L.A.
Quinn parked near the motel’s office, then waited in the car with Orlando while Nate went inside to check in. While the sketch of Quinn from New York hadn’t been in the news for the last twenty-four hours, he still felt the need to keep a low profile.
“How you feeling?” he asked Orlando.
She hesitated, then said, “I’m fine.”
“You’re cute when you lie,” he said.
“I’m fine, really,” she said. “You want to know if it hurts? Of course it does. But I’m fine.”
They were silent for a few moments.
“I assume you want to do a recon,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Then we can just drop off our bags and go.”
“You’re staying here,” Quinn said.
“I said I was fine.”
“I know you did. But you could use some rest. You look exhausted.”
“I don’t want to argue with you about this,” she said.
“I don’t want to argue, either. But this first trip out, we’re just going to do a scout. That I don’t need you for.”
The look on her face was far from happy. “I can stay in the car. Monitor communications. Something might go wrong. You’ll need me there.”
“No,” Quinn said. “We won’t. We’re not going to get close enough for anything to go wrong.”
She leaned back into her seat, her lips pressed together and her eyes drilling a hole in the center of Quinn’s forehead.
“Come on. Don’t be stupid. You don’t have all your strength back yet. You know that. I
“Fine,” she said, her tone indicating it was anything but.
“You know I’m right.”
Before she could respond, the car door opened and Nate climbed back in.
“Our rooms are toward the back,” Nate said, holding up two key cards. “Rooms 4 and 5. The guy inside said there’s parking right in front of them.”
Before Quinn could turn around to restart the car, Orlando snatched one of the keys from Nate, then looked at Quinn.
“I’ll take this room,” she said. “You can stay with Nate.”
The terrain north of Lone Pine was similar to that which they had just been driving through for the past hour, except for one large exception. To the left, between the highway and the Sierras, were the Alabama Hills, a rolling pile of granite and volcanic rocks. To Quinn it looked like a dump of surplus material someone decided wasn’t needed to make the mountains.
According to the information Nate had dug up, most of the hills were under the protection of the Bureau of Land
