off center. Even using star locators, the orientation of the telescope was not perfect, which was due to the inevitable manufacturing tolerances present in the gears and drives that aimed the device. Now the engineer aimed the telescope by hand, centering the square object, a building, in the crosshairs.
'Full charge on the capacitor,' Courbet announced from her position at the main control console. Her voice was carried over an intercom system to each helmet by a wire. The transmissions from even a low-voltage radio system could have been picked up on earth, so the intercom system was hardwired.
Courbet slaved the beam generator to the signals from the telescope's servo drive, verified that it was aligned, then ordered everyone in the chamber to take a safety position. All involved moved behind the antimagnetic shield that had been erected between the beam generator and the main control console.
Pierre personally inspected the readouts, then gave the order. 'Fire.'
Courbet jabbed the red button on the console, discharging the capacitor to the beam generator.
Every person in the cavern felt the electrical charge, which tingled their skin and made the room glow with a blue light for several seconds. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
Claudine Courbet and Pierre Artois dashed to the telescope monitor and stared at the picture. The building in the crosshairs, a quarter million miles away, was not there anymore.
The private jet touched down at the Tonopah, Nevada, airport and taxied to the far end of a huge, crumbling concrete parking mat. Two four-wheel-drive vehicles drove up beside the airplane. Egg didn't recognize the airport, but he was fairly certain they were someplace in Nevada. A few old hangars were visible. From the size of the parking mat, he concluded that this was an old military base.
He had little time to look around before he was hustled straight into one of the vehicles. His hands were bound in front of him with a plastic tie, not too tight; no one had put a blindfold on him. Obviously they weren't worried about what he might tell law enforcement officials at some time in the future, if he had one.
The men who had kidnapped him had made several telephone calls while the jet was in flight, but they hadn't spoken to him. There were two of them, both fit men of about thirty. When they had something to say to each other, they said it in French, a language that Egg didn't speak. If they were grieving over their two colleagues who had died on the farm in Missouri, they hid it well. Occasionally they talked to the flight crew, but mainly they watched the news on a television monitor. They did share some food and offered Egg a glass of wine, which he accepted.
A few minutes after they snatched him, the kidnappers patted him down. They found his cell phone and threw it out a car window. Once they found it, they stopped searching. They apparently didn't expect him to have a concealed weapon — and he didn't. Each of them did, however. Not that Egg had much of a chance against two fit men twenty-five years younger and seventy-five pounds lighter than he was.
One of the men sat in the backseat with Egg and the other took the wheel of the SUV, which was, Egg thought, a Chevrolet Tahoe. In seconds the Tahoe was under way with the second vehicle following. As they drove away from the airport on the access road, Egg saw the jet taking off.
The Tahoe was soon on the hard road, cruising at least seventy-five miles per hour. Egg looked out the window a while at the empty desert landscape and the distant mountains. Finally he slumped over, exhausted, and fell asleep.
The bumping and bouncing of the Tahoe over a dirt road woke him. It was night. Egg announced he had to take a leak, and the SUV stopped immediately. The man in the backseat merely watched his back as Egg urinated beside the car.
He was somewhere in the desert, he thought. There was a decent breeze, and he could smell juniper, perhaps. Something with a dry, gentle scent. He glanced at the headlights of the vehicle sitting behind his, then zipped up and climbed back in the seat.
Thirty or so minutes later the Tahoe came to a gate in a fence. The driver used a handheld radio, and soon a vehicle approached the wire from the other side. The driver of Egg's vehicle got out, went to the gate and talked. He came back as the person on the other side opened the gate. The Tahoe drove on through, then was again lost in the emptiness.
After another hour of this, a building loomed in the headlights. It was huge, with plain walls. An aircraft hangar. An old one, from what he could see of it, with only a little paint remaining on weathered boards.
The men got out of the car and gestured for Egg to do so too. One of them led the way through a personnel door at one end of the hangar that took them into an office of some sort. There was a man there, sitting behind a desk. He was in his forties, perhaps, with short red hair, faded freckles and a splotchy tan. He looked lean and ropy, as if he were too nervous to keep on weight or too busy to eat.
He stared at Egg Cantrell. 'So you're the man, eh?'
Egg merely looked around at the wooden hangar walls, which hadn't seen paint since World War II. The desk was gray metal with a scarred top, the chairs metal and equally worn.
'Cut his hands loose,' the man said to one of the Frenchmen, who took out a knife and did so. Apparently they spoke English after all.
As Egg massaged his wrists, the man pointed to a chair. 'No, thanks. I've been sitting for hours.'
'Yes. Well, I'll get right to it. We need your help. Last year you flew the flying saucer with your nephew. You've made quite a name for yourself since as an expert in saucer technology. We've got a saucer, and we want you to fly it for us.'
Egg couldn't believe his ears.
'That's right.'
'And who are you?'
The man said nothing.
Egg looked around, scrutinized every face, then pulled one of the chairs around and lowered himself onto it. 'Maybe I should sit, after all. Where, may I ask, is your saucer?'
The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'In the hangar.'
'Why the kidnapping? I think two men may have been severely injured—' He made a gesture. 'If you had just sent me an e-mail I would have come charging out here as fast as the horses would run to take a look.'
'There are a few complications,' the man said dryly, 'which we'll get into later, if you like. Suffice it to say that the need is urgent and there was no time to waste.'
'I see.'
'If you wish to look—' The man rose from his chair. He was tall, with large hands. He held one out to shake. 'My name is Newton Chadwick.'
8
The overhead lights of the hangar were pinpoints in the accumulated dust on the saucer's dark skin. The floor was naked, cracked concrete covered with caked dirt and ancient oil stains. The windows high up on both ends of the building were coated with black paint. A few of the windows were broken, with panes missing. The lighting system was probably as old as the hangar; the entire place was poorly lit.
Egg Cantrell stood for a while taking everything in, then walked over to the saucer. He ran a hand along the top of the leading edge, wiping off dust. The skin was cool and smooth underneath and appeared black as the desert night.
His first impression was size. This saucer was larger than the one Rip had found in the Sahara, yet in all other ways it seemed identical. Same style legs, three of them, same canopy, same shape. He walked around it, examined the four rocket exhausts, looked at the maneuvering jet ports, ran his fingers along the leading edge, searching for dents or cuts or imperfections. And found none.
When he had circled the entire machine, he turned to face Newton Chadwick. 'Want to tell me about it?'
Chadwick crossed his arms on his chest, then reached a hand up to feel the stubble on his chin. Finally he said, 'It was found in New Mexico in 1947. The army moved it here. It's been sitting here ever since.'
'You work for the government?'
Chadwick put both hands on the saucer and stood staring at it.
Egg lost his temper. 'Come on, Chadwick. You aren't with the government — I know that. You had me
