line.”
“Yeah, well I don’t
Two guards in unmarked black fatigues stood before a shiny personnel elevator, each brandishing M249 rifles with 200-round box drums. They eyed Wentz coldly, then parted when they noticed Ashton. A disturbing sign was mounted above the doors:
THIS ELEVATOR DE-POWERS
AT DEFCON ONE.
DO NOT USE IN THE EVENT OF FIRE
OR IMMINENT NUCLEAR STRIKE.
The elevator opened only after both sentries simultaneously inserted code cards into slots and pressed their right index fingers on an optical pad.
“This joint is serious business,” Wentz remarked once inside the elevator.
“Yes, it is.”
“But how come the guards didn’t ID me?”
“Because you’re with me.”
Wentz took the speculation further. “Well suppose I was holding you hostage, suppose I had dynamite under my flight suit and I’d ordered you to act normal or I’d set it off?”
“One of the screws in that warning sign was actually a digital lens connected to a cadmium thermograph. If it detected any heat fluctuations on my face—distress—an alarm would’ve sounded.”
“What then?”
“The guards would’ve machine-gunned you without hesitation.”
“Like I said,” Wentz repeated with raised brows. “This joint is serious business.” Then he noted no floor- indicator on the elevator, no floor buttons. “How do we know where we’re going?”
“It’s already been preprogrammed, but for your information, we’re going to the facility’s deepest level. I think you’ll like it: Level Thirteen.”
Wentz praised The Nix. “All right, Colonel, so what’s the rest of the scoop? Papoose is a total fake? They always said it was a toxic waste dump or something.”
“Yes, that’s the cover story we planted years ago.”
“I learn something new every day.” He stole a glance at her; she looked puny in the flight suit, preposterously young. “Now tell me something else. How’s a twenty-year-old manage to make full colonel?”
“Very funny, General. I’m twenty-nine, not that it’s any of your business. I’m just an admin officer.”
Wentz couldn’t help the chuckle. “Right, just an admin officer…with instant access to a black test site and a security clearance higher than the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.”
The elevator doors hissed open, leading them out into a white, antiseptic corridor. “Ready to find out why you’re taking the mission?” Ashton asked. She stopped next to a pair of white doors which read DRESSING UNITS - MALE - FEMALE.
“I’m not taking the mission,” Wentz assured her. “But I sure as shit want to find out what it is.”
“Then get into your fatigues and I’ll show you.” Ashton paused. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
“What’s that?” Wentz asked.
“Welcome to Area S-4, sir.”
—
CHAPTER 7
Dressed in white fatigues, Wentz and Ashton stood in an empty darkened warehouse hundreds of feet long.
“Area S-4, huh?” Wentz commented. “What’s it stand for.”
“Just a designation. It’s actually a federal land grid. And there’s no tagline for this facility—no Groom, no Dreamland, no Skunkworks. ”
Wentz looked down at his attire, frowning. “Well, so far I’m impressed, but I’m not exactly digging the white fatigues. Makes me feel like a house painter. And what are we just standing around for?”
“We’re waiting for someone…”
Hard footsteps clapped in the distance, growing closer.
A young collegiate-looking officer eventually appeared, wearing an Air Force Class-A uniform and major’s blossoms. No name plate.
“Great,” Wentz said. “Another Tekna/Byman Op. Let me guess—Major
The two men shook hands. “Jones is as good a name as any, General Wentz,” the Major replied. “I’m honored to meet you, and I welcome you to Area S-4. If you’ll follow me please, sir.”
They began to cross the empty warehouse, their footsteps all clattering. But as Wentz squinted, he noted that the underground warehouse wasn’t as empty as he’d thought. Along the far walls, hidden in shadow, stood armed black-garbed sentries every ten feet. Moments later, then, he noticed machine-gun emplacements built into the walls high above them. The barely visible gun barrels followed them as they proceeded.
“There’s one blacker, General, and you’re in it,” Major “Jones” said. “I take it you’ve spent a lot of time at Area 51?”
“I practically lived there off and on for ten years. That damn sand-pit cost me my marriage.”
Jones glanced to Ashton, then nodded.
“General, you’re familiar with the cult UFO hype surrounding Area 51?” Ashton asked him.
Wentz smiled, bemused. “Sure. I read about it every time I’m in line at the grocery store. Dead alien bodies on ice. Crashed spaceships in secret hangars. The local residents have some sort of a club out there; they think the 0315 Black Goose flights are UFOs that we’ve captured.”
“But what is
What else could Wentz do but frown? “I’ve walked every square foot of every warehouse, hangar, and building at Area 51, and I’ve never seen any spaceships or dead aliens. Now would you
Jones stopped, handing Wentz a metal clipboard. “I’m sure you’re more than familiar with the National Classified Secrets Act, sir.”
“The Federal Secrecy Oath is like death and taxes.” Wentz didn’t need to read it; he just signed it and passed it back to Jones. “I’ll bet I’ve signed more of these than you’ve signed credit card receipts.”
They walked a ways further, then came to a halt before a huge steel bulkhead painted white. Blue letters read:
DEADLY FORCE PERIMETER
UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
WILL BE KILLED
Jones and Ashton exchanged odd glances, like an inside joke.
Wentz shot them both a hard look. “Wait a minute. Just wait. You’re not gonna tell me that you’ve got dead
