“I think whatever Hugo’s planning, it’s already begun. That’s why I want you to go over to Bix Automotive and keep an eye on the place.”
Curtis nodded. “Can do, Jack. I’ve already established a reconnaissance position inside a vacant tool and die factory across the street.”
“Go now. Call Morris with updates every hour. And be careful. This whole operation is already in jeopardy. One more strike and we’re out.”
5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
After helping the Senator pass through the restricted terminal’s extensive security protocols, which included X-ray scans, metal detectors, and a fingerprint check, Air Force Colonel Vincent DeBlasio handed David Palmer off to the scientist in charge of the Malignant Wave Project. Palmer, who understood the silent language of the military hierarchy, saw this as a sign that the Air Force was not comfortable with the direction the project had taken, and that the top brass who originally authorized the project were now maneuvering to distance themselves from the research they initially funded.
Dr. Megan Reed was unlike any research scientist Palmer had ever met. A tall, striking blond in pearls, a crisp business suit, and high heels, she boldly shook the Senator’s hand when they were introduced. She immediately dismissed DeBlasio and took charge of her VIP guest. Since both of them knew it would be unwise and unlawful to discuss the Malignant Wave Program before they arrived at the secured top secret site, the Senator and the scientist talked about their destination instead. The woman proved to be an eager and determined tour guide.
“Have you ever visited Groom Lake before, Senator?”
“I haven’t,” Palmer replied. “But I’m impressed by the high level of security at this terminal.”
Dr. Reed nodded. “I’ll pass on your compliment to Beverly Chang, or you can tell her yourself. Dr. Chang is one of the researchers in the Malignant Wave program. She was also in charge of instituting the new security protocols.”
Palmer looked around. The concrete interior of the restricted terminal on the northwestern edge of Mc-Carran International Airport was unimpressive. He glanced back at the glass doors he’d passed through earlier. The Tropicana and New York New York casinos were so close to the building they seemed to border the runway.
“I understood that Groom Lake is close to being deactivated. Was I misinformed?”
“Not at all, Senator,” Megan Reed replied. “Activities on the base are winding down ahead of the scheduled deactivation. Staffing is down, but several top secret research programs still continue.”
Dr. Reed did not mention the fact that those research projects were also close to deactivation — or rather, de-funding — or that Malignant Wave was at the top of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee’s endangered projects list. Palmer had come to Nevada this day to assess the program as part of his duties as chairman of the committee. He took a special interest in Malignant Wave because the weapon they were developing was supposedly based on nonlethal technology. Palmer was enthusiastic about any weapon system that had the potential to minimize casualties in times of war.
Dr. Reed took the lead. “If you’ll follow me out to the airplane.”
They passed through another glass door. The afternoon was dazzling, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. The brightness of the day was intensified by the sun bouncing off the bleached concrete. The noise of jet engines was deafening, so conversation ceased until they crossed to the portable staircase that led into the belly of the unmarked Boeing 737–200 parked on the tarmac.
Here, the main terminal at McCarran Airport was clearly visible across a stretch of runway, and the illusion that the Las Vegas strip bordered the runway was intensified as well. The looming shadow of The MGM Grand’s green “Emerald City” towers appeared to stretch across the perimeter of the landing field.
Dr. Reed led Palmer up the stairs and into the cabin. Inside the airliner, the buffeting noise of jet engines subsided, the only sound was the steady hum of the on-board climate control system. The pilot and an air steward, both in United States Air Force uniforms, greeted them inside the door.
“I’m Captain Brent, Senator Palmer. Welcome aboard Janet Three-two-three.”
Palmer noted that Captain Brent was close to retirement age. He also noticed several campaign ribbons on the officer’s dress uniform, including those for Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Respectfully, the Senator shook the combat veteran’s hand.
Megan Reed then directed the Senator to seats at the front of the craft, close to the pilot’s cabin. Behind them a scattering of civilian and military workers pretended not to stare at the high-profile politician in their midst.
“I see the Air Force is in charge of transport now,” Palmer noted.
“That’s correct,” Dr. Reed replied, fastening her seat belt. “Formerly, the defense contractor Edgerton, Germeshausen and Grier, Inc. managed transport and security around Groom Lake. But since the deactivation was announced, their contract was voided and Air Force security took over daily operations.”
Palmer lifted an eyebrow. “So EG&G is out?”
“They are. But their ongoing contracts with NASA, the Department of Energy, Defense, Treasury and Homeland Security guarantees EG&G will have plenty of work to do in the foreseeable future.”
Palmer realized Megan Reed had missed the motive behind his question. The Senator didn’t care that EG&G was out of a contract, only that Groom Lake’s legendary security was at the same levels that existed before the transition. Rather than clarify his query, Palmer let the subject drop.
The steward brought them coffee. Within a few minutes the aircraft was taxiing down the runway.
“This aircraft is fairly empty,” Palmer noted. “What kind of personnel levels are we talking about these days?”
Megan Reed’s pug nose curled as she considered his question.
“Well, there are flights north every half hour,” she explained. “But what we call rush hour occurs weekday mornings, when our fleet of jets carry close to five hundred military personnel, contractors and civilian workers to several top secret locations in the desert. Most of these workers depart at our first stop — the main runway at Groom Lake.”
She leaned back in her seat, crossed her tanned and shapely legs. “Next year I suspect those personnel numbers will be significantly curtailed due to ongoing cuts.”
They hardly seemed to have left the ground when Senator Palmer heard the airplane’s wheels come down again. He peered through the window, saw three concrete runways stretching whitely across the scorched brown desert terrain.
“Right now we’re over Emigrant Valley in Lincoln County, Nevada,” Dr. Reed told him. “Area 51 is al most below us. The experimental base is a relatively small, sixty square mile area inside of a much larger base called —”
“I know, Dr. Reed,” Palmer said, cutting her short. “The Nevada Test and Training Range is about forty-six hundred square miles, Area 51 is just a tiny section of the entire complex.”
She nodded, unperturbed by the Senator’s apparent rudeness. “The dry lake bed is clearly visible from the air, and you can see both operating runways.”
“I see three runways,” Palmer replied.
“The one on our right has already been decommissioned. It’s been neglected for so long it’s no longer suitable for operations.”
The aircraft descended then, until they were below the peaks of the Groom and Papoose Mountain ranges that surrounded the valley. Finally the wheels bumped once and the aircraft braked, engines whining shrilly. They landed in a cloud of sandy dust. The aircraft powered down and taxied to a small concrete building squatting in the sun.
“We’ve just arrived on the main runway, built in the 1990s,” Megan Reed explained.
Palmer bit back a response. The demonstration had not even begun and already Palmer was tired of Dr. Megan Reed’s endless explanations.
