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.
Who’s this
dweeb? Wentz
wondered. He looks like Wally
Cleaver.
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
Jones,
right?”
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.
That’s some Welcome
Wagon, Wentz
thought. “Area S-4. And all this time I thought 51 in Tonopah was
the blackest test site in the world.”
“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 your conclusion, General?” Jones
queried.
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
please cut the jive and—”
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
That’s putting it
bluntly, Wentz thought.
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 aliens in there.”
“No, General,”
Jones said.
He inserted a
tubular key into a small plate. The immense steel door began to
rise almost soundlessly.
Ashton tapped
Wentz on the shoulder.
“We keep the
dead aliens in Ohio, sir,” she said.
««—»»
Back in
Maryland, General Gerald Cawthorne Rainier, as he was known to,
strummed his fingers on the desk blotter. He chain-smoked, knowing
it would kill him someday, and he often hoped that day might come
sooner than later.
Often, he felt
he deserved it.
The smoke
swirled before the desk lamp, the only illumination in the office.
Rainier preferred the dark. It seemed vastly easier—and much more
appropriate—to sit in the dark when he contorted and manipulated
the lives of good men.
He stared down
at the open folder, stared down at the personnel photo of Jack
Wentz. Then he closed it and stared at the
heading:
OPERATOR “B”
He pushed it
aside as the gauzy air swirled before the lamp. How many dead faces
did he see in the smoke, how many ruined souls?
He forced
himself not to consider the questions—he was good at that. His
fingers continued to strum.
Next he placed
a single sheet of thin tractor-fed paper on the desk
blotter.
READ AND DESTROY
TOP SECRET
(SI/HS) BYMAN/BYMAN/FARGO
AF-MILNET CIPHER:
PAGE ONE OF ONE PAGE
CRYPTMAIL CODE 49867-99-00
-25 JULY 1999 -0713 HRS
FROM: NSA/DIRECTOR OF ENCRYPTED OPERATIONS, FT. MEADE, MARYLAND
DE: LEVEL THIRTEEN, AREA S-4, TECHNICAL TESTING FACILITY, STAPLES, NEVADA
DE: NASA, ANALYSIS BRANCH, GREENBELT, MARYLAND
TO: IGA (INTER-AGENCY GROUP ACTIVITY) THE PENTAGON
SPECULATION AND ASSESSMENT: (CODENAME) QSR4
ELINT CONTROL BRANCH, CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.
PLEASE ADVISE.
END AF-MILNET CIPHER
READ AND DESTROY
General Rainier
leaned back in his chair and dropped the sheet into the automatic
paper-pulverizer. The machine grated for a split second, then fell
silent.
Rainier lit
another cigarette, watched the smoke unfurl before the light like
so many homeless spirits.
One day, he
knew, his own face would be floating in the
smoke.
««—»»
As the heavy
bulkhead door rose, so did a line of light across Wentz’s face.
When the door had lifted completely, a loud
CLACK! was heard as steel pins locked it
open.
No, he
thought, peering ahead. No. No. No. No.
No.
He was staring
at what was clearly an air vehicle of some kind, but one with no
configuration he could imagine as being capable of
flight.
It was
crescent-shaped, not circular or disk-like. Wentz imagined a giant
heel. It was thirty feet long, twenty feet wide. Dull silver, like
sandblasted aluminum.
No. No. No…
Armed guards
walked a slow post around it, while still more guards looked down
from gun emplacements high overhead in scaffolds. Floodlights
beamed down, harsh as desert sun.
Wentz felt his
astonishment sift away, replaced by something like numb shock. All
the blood seemed to have drained from his face.
“No,” he
croaked. “No way.”
“You know what
this is, don’t you, General Wentz?” Jones
asked.
Wentz stood
dumb and mute, staring.
“General?”
A team of
technicians approached the vehicle, brandishing aerosol paint tanks
on their backs. They began to paint the object, tan on the topside,
sky-blue on the underside.
“The paint
burns off almost immediately,” Ashton remarked, “but it serves as
sufficient camouflage during take-offs. The KH and RENSKY
satellites can’t see it. Then we wait until after dark to bring her
back, with the same auto-landing hardware that was installed in the
F-15.”
“What’s it
called?” Wentz managed to ask.
“We call it the
OEV,” Jones replied.
Then Ashton
defined, “Operational Extraterrestrial Vehicle.”
My God, Wentz thought.
Jones went on
to explain. “Since 1944, the military has documented over sixty
instances of vehicles of extraterrestrial origin crashing within
the continental United States. Most of these vehicles were
completely destroyed upon impact. Four were recovered reasonably
intact but rendered inoperable via crash damage… General Wentz? Are
you listening?”
Wentz nodded
slowly, his mouth open, his eyes flat.
“One vehicle,
however, was recovered completely intact, and that would be the vehicle you’re
looking at. It was recovered outside of Edgewood, Maryland, in
1989. It is our estimation that the OEV didn’t crash but instead
landed near the U.S. Army’s Edgewood Arsenal. The vehicle’s two
occupants then disembarked upon what we believe was a field survey
of several weapons depots on the Edgewood installation, whereupon
they were shot and killed by post sentries. In other words,
General, the OEV is—”
“Undamaged,”
Wentz dully replied. “Still flies.”
“That’s
correct, sir. It is fully operational as we speak… General? Are
you listening?”
Wentz mutely
nodded again. He could not divert his stare.
“Give him a
break,” Ashton said to Jones. “It takes time.”
Jones seemed
exasperated. “I know this is difficult, General, I know this comes
as the biggest shock of your life. But you must listen carefully.
Will Farrington was the OEV’s primary operator.”
“Will
Farrington is dead,” Wentz guttered.
“Yes, sir. And
that means that you are now the vehicle’s primary operator—”
Snap out of it! Wentz shouted at himself.
Jesus Christ,
this is serious. You’re looking at a fucking UFO! Snap out of
it! He broke from
his paralyzed stance and quickly approached one of the
guards.
“You,” he
ordered.
The guard
snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Good afternoon, sir!”
“Fuck that good
afternoon shit. Slap me in the face. Hard.”
The
black-suited guard blinked. “Sir, I can’t strike an—”
“Do
it!”
The guard
lowered his M-17 4.4mm ACR rifle and—
CRACK!
—slapped
Wentz across the face so hard he saw stars. “As you were,” he
bumbled, shaking off the rest of his stupor.
Wow, that
hurt. He
blinked out the bright spots, then paced briskly back to Jones and
Ashton.
“All right,” he
said. “My shit’s square and I’m good to go. Now…show me the inside
of this bird.”
««—»»
They’d climbed
aboard via a standard Air Force hull ladder. The OEV sported a
circular hatch a yard wide, and next Wentz was stepping in,
following Ashton down another ladder that clearly was not
manufactured by the Air Force—the rungs and siderails
of this ladder were thin as wire but supported Wentz’s weight
without so much as bowing. Now Wentz stood at the bottom of a
yard-wide tube, the same dull silver as the pre-painted
hull. An airlock, he guessed. Red instructions had been
stenciled:
CAUTION: SET
DECOMPRESS
(30-SECONDS
EGRESSION TIME)
ACTIVATE DETENT,
THEN DEBARK
Wentz stepped
through the airlock’s oval manway; Ashton stood waiting for
him.
“Sweet Jesus,”
Wentz murmured when he glanced forward, starboard and
port.
The interior
stood stark, smoothly featured. There were no signs of original
flight controls in the “cockpit,” though several banks of
indicators had been mounted by Air Force technicians, as were two
high-tech flight chairs installed over two contoured humps that
clearly were the pilot and co-pilot seats of the vehicle’s original
operators. Wentz leaned over and peered through two prism-shaped
windows beyond which he could see the maintenance scaffolds and the
interior hangar. The small windows bore no indication of casements,
seams, frames, or sealant—as if they’d somehow been
grown into the front of the craft. Aside from the sparse
man-made additions, everything inside was the same color as the
outside, that dull, lusterless silver.
“I don’t know
if I believe this,” Wentz said.
“Once you fly
it, you will.”
He examined the
aft section. Some supply compartments had been installed, a SNAP-4
nuclear battery and water cell, and an EVA rack, but he didn’t
notice anything that might resemble an engine compartment, nor fuel
stores.
“What’s the
fuel source?” he asked the first logical
question.
“Unknown. Our
physicists believe it has something to do with gravity
amplification synchronized with or against magnetic-pulse waves.
We’re confident that the manner in which the vehicle harnesses
available energy is unlimited.”
“Endless fuel
source…”
“More than
likely, yes,” Ashton concurred. She pointed to a cylindrical
protrudement on the floor, molded into the coaming. It was no
bigger than a Coke can. “We believe
that is the gravity amplifier, or what you would think
of as an engine. More than likely, other navigational and guidance
components exist in the hull. The crew were oxygen/nitrogen
breathers just like us. It’s more than likely that the air supply
is also unlimited.”
“That’s a lot
of ‘more than likely’s,’” Wentz posed. “I don’t want to be the
driver at the stick when this thing runs out of gas.”
“I’ve been in
it during many of Farrington’s para-orbital flights. So if I’m not
worried about it, a big tough senior test like you shouldn’t be
either.”
Wentz didn’t
exactly appreciate Ashton’s rising snippiness, but he hardly
cared.
“Top speed?” he
asked.
“Unknown.
Within the earth’s atmosphere we estimate a maximum forward
velocity of about 50,000 miles per hour.”
“Impossible.
The inertia would turn the pilot into ground chuck.”
Ashton’s slippy
manner edged back. “General, this vehicle wasn’t built by Boeing or
McDonnell-Douglas; it was built by
alien engineers. You’re standing right in the middle of the proof. You have to
modify your powers of belief. Once you get it in your head that
this isn’t a balsa-wood plane with rubber-band propeller, we’ll all
be better off.”
“All right,
Colonel Smart Ass,” Wentz shot back. “Then you tell me how an
aircraft can travel 50,000 knots and not smash the pilot’s brain
against the inside of his skull, pop his eyeballs, squirt his
spinal fluid out his ears, and blow all of his internal organs out
his mouth and his asshole?”
Ashton shrugged
as if these considerations meant nothing. “General, we’re obviously
dealing with a technological base that’s probably a thousand years
ahead of us. It’s only logical that the OEV is fitted with some
sort of integrated velotic envelope that counters forward inertia
with reverse inertia, precisely in time with acceleration. Who
cares how it works? It just does.”
“All right,
fine. So how fast is it…out of the atmosphere?
“Again,
unknown. All we do know is that the propulsion system is capable of
producing velocities that seem to be exponentially faster
than—”
“No, no! Don’t
even say it!” Wentz nearly yelled.
“—the speed of
light. Farrington’s longest range flight was to Alpha Centauri. It
took him four days instead of four years.”
Shit, he thought. How could he
object?
“Let me put it
this way, General. Everything you’ve ever believed before today…is
wrong.”
Frustrated,
Wentz combed his gaze around the cockpit area. “Where are the
controls? Where’s the stick?”
“Keep cranking
that rubber band, sir. There’s no stick. This is a para-orbital, hyper-velotic,
self-contained intragalactic transport unit. It’s founded on
technologies that are virtually unknown to the human
race.”
Wentz was
getting pissed. “I don’t care if it’s a goddamn Good Humor truck!
How do you fly it without controls?”
Ashton’s tone
moderated. “The controls are…integrated.”
“Integrated
with what?”
“With the
operator—the pilot…”
Wentz squinted
at her like a caveman glimpsing the ocean for the first
time.
Ashton touched
the brushed-silver surface of an angled ledge in front of the
port-side flight chair.
A seamless
panel hummed open.
“What in the
holy hell?” Wentz asked.
The opened
panel revealed two narrowly outlined indentations. Outlines like
two bizarre hands possessing only two fingers and a
thumb.
Ashton audibly
gulped. “Those are the controls,” she said.