Foreman picked up the phone. “Conners, what’s the latest on the Bermuda Triangle Gate?”
“It’s still shrinking,” she reported. “At an even faster rate.”
“Angkor Gate?” he asked.
“It’s down to a small area, about six kilometers wide and getting smaller.”
*****
Captain Bateman shoved the hatch aside and climbed, Dane right behind him. Dane blinked in the bright sunlight. He looked about. To the rear of the Scorpion he could see the mist, but it was getting further away with every passing second, the storm closing in on itself.
Carpenter, Beasley, Freed and Ariana joined him. They looked in the same direction.
“Are we safe?” Freed asked.
Dane nodded. “For now.”
Foreman’s elation was dampened by the next report from naval headquarters. “The Wyoming is gone, sir.”
EPILOGUE
“The last time we met, you were pointing a gun at me,” Foreman said.
Dane stared at the old man on the other side of the conference table noting the changes the years had etched. Foreman had aged well, except that his once-thick snow-white hair was thinner than Dane remembered. “You were lying to me then,” Dane continued, reaching down to his left and rubbing Chelsea’s left ear. The golden retriever cocked her head and pressed against his hand.
“Withholding information,” Foreman clarified. “Lying is too strong a word to be used for the situation.”
They were seated in a conference room inside CIA headquarters at Langley. Sin Fen sat next to Foreman. Foreman would be leaving shortly for a high level meeting in Washington with the president and the National Security Council to discuss what had just occurred both in the Angkor Gate in Cambodia and the other Gates.
The shocking sudden reappearance of the submarine Scorpion--listed as lost in US Navy logs in 1968--was being kept under wraps, but Dane knew it could not last much longer. They could not explain the fact that not a man in the crew seemed to have aged a day in forty years. Nor could the crew explain it. As far as they were concerned, just minutes had passed between the time they last radioed Foreman in 1968 that the reactor was going off-line as they entered the Bermuda Triangle to the moment Dane appeared on the ship’s bridge two days ago.
“Why do you still need me?” Dane asked.
“Because that mission you started on forty years ago never ended,” Foreman said. “Because you stopped the invasion through the Angkor Gate.”
“For the moment,” Sin Fen added.
Foreman nodded. “That’s why I need you.”
Dane glanced at Sin Fen. Her mind was a black wall to him. Then back at Foreman. There, he could tell more, but not as much as he would have liked. He knew the old man was telling the truth, but he also sensed there was so much Foreman didn’t know or was holding back. Based on his experiences with the CIA man, Dane knew it was likely a combination of both.
“I put everything in my report,” Dane said.
“Also,” Foreman continued as if he had not heard, “we lost the Wyoming, inside the Bermuda Triangle Gate.”
“Other submarines have been lost in the Gates,” Dane said.
Foreman steepled his fingers. “Not one with twenty-four Trident ICBMs on board. With each missile carrying eight Mk 4 nuclear warheads rated at a hundred kilotons each. That’s 192 nuclear warheads. And our friends on the other side, whoever or whatever they are--the Shadow as your man Flaherty called them--seem to have a penchant for radioactive things. We defeated their weapons in this first assault, but we might not do so good against our weapons that they’ve captured.”
“Great,” Dane said. “We get the Scorpion back, the Shadow get the Wyoming and its nukes.”
“We got you,” Foreman said. “You have some sort of power, some sort of attachment to these Gates. You made it into the Angkor Gate and out again. Two times. That’s once more than anyone else has ever done.”
Dane simply stared at the CIA representative. He felt as if he were in a whirlpool being sucked in against his will into a dark and dangerous center. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure how hard he should swim against the power drawing him in; if he was even capable of resisting.
Foreman slid several photos across the table. “The top one is the Angkor Kol Ker Gate. Then the Bermuda Triangle and other Gates around the world.”
Dane looked at the first photo. It was a satellite image of Cambodia. There was a solid black triangle in the center, about six miles long on each side. It was located in the north-central part of the country, in deep, nearly impenetrable jungle.
“Each Gate is now shaped the same and stable at that size,” Foreman said. “That solid black is something new and we don’t know what it means. It’s never been reported as long as we have recorded history. No form of imaging can penetrate it. Ground surveillance from those visually watching the Gates over land say the fog has coalesced into solid black. Remote sensors sent on remotely piloted vehicles, whether sent via ground, air or sea, simply go into the black and cease transmitting. And they never come back out, even if they are programmed to return.
“The Russians--and this is classified as is everything else we discuss--sent a team into one of the Gates on their territory near Tunguska two days ago. The team hasn’t come back and is presumed dead.
“I’m afraid that although we stopped the propagation it went on long enough to allow this thing, whatever it is, to gain a solid foothold on our planet at each of the Gate sites. That’s something that never happened before.”
“That we know of,” Sin Fen added.
“It means they’re waiting,” Dane said.
“They?” Foreman asked.
“The Shadow.”
“For what?” Sin Fen asked.
“To attack again,” Dane said.
THE END
ALSO FROM BOB MAYER
THE AREA 51 SERIES
EXCERPT FROM BOOK ONE
Prologue
It came alive into darkness, wondering what had caused it to wake and aware at the same time that it was much weaker than ever before. The first priority was time. How long had it been asleep? The weakness gave the answer. Dividing half-lives of its power source, it calculated that almost fifty revolutions of this planet around the system star had passed since last it had been conscious.
The data from sensors was examined and found to be indeterminate. Whatever signal had tripped the alarms and kicked in the emergency power had to have been strong and vital but was now gone. Its sleep level had been so deep that all the recorded data showed was that there had been a signal. The nature of the signal, the source of the signal, both had been lost.
The Makers had not anticipated such a long time before resupply of the power source. It knew there was not much time left to its already very long life before the power supply slipped below the absolute minimum to keep it functioning even in hibernation.
A decision needed to be made. Should it divert power to sensors in case the signal were repeated, or should it go back to deep sleep, conserving power for time? But if the signal had been vital, and the sensor log said it was indeed so, then there might not be much time left.
The decision was made as quickly as the question had been posed. Power was allocated. The sensors were given more power to stay at a higher alert status in order to catch a repeat of the signal. A time limit of one planetary orbit about the system star was put on the sensors, at which time they would automatically awaken it and the decision could be reconsidered.
It went back to a lighter sleep, knowing that the decision to divert power to sensors for an orbit would cost it almost ten orbits of sleep when the power got lower, but it accepted that. That was its job.
Chapter One
Nashville, Tennessee
T-147 Hours
The grocery bag Kelly Reynolds was holding ripped open as she unlocked her mailbox and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke burst open on impact with the ground, sending cans everywhere. It had been t
hat kind of day, she reflected as she gathered in the errant cans. She’d spent it interviewing local bar owners on Second Avenue for an article she was writing, and two of her five appointments had failed to show.
She stuffed the mail into the remnants of the bag and made her way to her apartment, dropping the entire mess on the table in her tiny kitchen. She filled a mug with water and pushed it into the microwave, setting the timer, then leaned back against the counter, giving herself the two minutes before the beeper sounded to relax. She studied her reflection in the kitchen window, which looked out onto a back alley in Nashville’s West End. Kelly was short, just over five feet, but big boned. She carried her weight well thanks to her morning routine of sit-ups and push-ups, but the combination of bulk and lack of height made her look like a compressed version of a person who should be four inches taller. Her hair was thick and brown, streaked with gray for the last ten years. Kelly had made the effort to keep the original color for a year or so, then had given up, accepting what time had dealt her after forty-two years on the planet.
The microwave dinged and she removed the mug and placed a tea bag into it, allowing the water to soak through. While she was waiting for that, she pulled out the mail, interested most in the thick brown envelope that she’d noticed as the cans had fallen. The return address made her smile: Phoenix, Arizona. It had to be from Johnny Simmons, an old friend from her graduate days at Vanderbilt. Actually, more than an old friend, Kelly reminded herself as her mind focused on those years a decade and a half ago.
Johnny had caught her on the rebound after her first husband had dumped her. She’d anchored her psyche in his emotional harbor for several months. When she’d finally felt like something of a whole human being again, she’d discovered that while she truly cared for Johnny, she didn’t have that special spark for him that she felt was necessary for an intimate relationship. Johnny had been very nice about it and they’d backed off, not speaking to each other for a while, then slowly reentered each other’s lives, testing the waters of friendship.
Kelly felt they had cemented that friendship after three years when Johnny had returned from a photojournalist assignment into El Salvador, where he had been documenting right-wing death squads. He’d holed up in her apartment for two months, decompressing from that ordeal. One or the other would call every month or so and they would catch up on their lives and know there was someone out there who cared. Last she’d heard, he was also working freelance, doing articles for whichever magazine was willing to cough up some money.
She slit the envelope open and was surprised to see an audiocassette fall out along with several pages. She picked up the cover letter and read.
Hey Kelly, 3 Nov 96
I was trying to think of who to send a copy of this tape to, and you were the first name that popped into my head—especially after what happened to you eight years ago with that joker from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada.
I got a package in the mail last week that included a letter and an audiotape—no return address and postmarked Las Vegas. I think I know who sent it, though. He wouldn’t be hard to find. I want you to listen to it. So go find a Walkman or go over to your stereo now. Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, and take this letter with you. I mean NOW! I knew you were still standing there. Put the tape in, but don’t start it yet.
Kelly smiled as she walked over to her stereo system precariously perched on a bookcase made up of cinder blocks and planks of wood. Johnny knew her and he had a good sense of humor, but even the humor couldn’t erase the instant bad feeling the Nellis Air Force Base reference had evoked. That Air Force intelligence officer had destroyed her career in filmmaking.
Pushing away the negative thoughts, Kelly put the tape in, then continued reading.
Okay. I’ll give you the same information that was in the letter I received with the tape. In fact, I’ll give you a copy of the letter that came with it. Next page, if you please.
Kelly turned the page to find a Xerox copy of a typewritten letter.
Mister Simmons,
In this package, you will find a tape recording I made on the evening of 23 October of this year. I was scanning the UHF wavelength. I often listen in to the pilots out of Nellis Air Force Base conducting operations. It was while doing just that, that I picked up the exchange you will listen to.
As near as I can tell, it is between the pilot of an F-15 (Victor Two Three), the control tower at Nellis, which uses the call sign Dreamland, and the flight commander of the F-15 pilot (Victor Six).
The pilot was taking part in the Red Flag, force on force, exercises at Nellis. These exercises are where the Air Force trains its fighter pilots in simulated combat. They have a whole squadron of Soviet-style aircraft at the Groom Lake complex on the Nellis Reservation to use in this training.
I’ll let you draw your own conclusions from the tape.
You want to talk to me, come to Vegas. Go to the “mailbox.” You don’t know what that is, ask around and you’ll find it. I’ll come to you. The Captain
Kelly turned the page. She smiled as she read. Listen to the tape now.
Using her remote, she turned the stereo on and pushed play. The voices were surprisingly clear, which made Kelly wonder at the machinery used to make the tape. This wasn’t someone holding a tape recorder up to a radio speaker. There was a clear hiss of static at the end of each transmission and three distinct voices, as the letter had indicated.
“Victor Two Three, this is Dreamland Control. You are violating restricted airspace. You will immediately turn on a heading of one-eight-zero.
“Victor Two Three, this is Dreamland Control. Repeat, you are violating restricted airspace. Turn immediately on a heading of one-eight-zero. Over.”
A new voice cut in, this one with the muted roar of jet engines in the background.
“Victor Two Three, this is Victor Six. Comply immediately with Dreamland Control. Over.”
“Six, this is Two Three. I’ll be out of here in a flash. Over.”
“Negative, Two Three. This is Dreamland Control. You will comply with our instructions ASAP. Over.”
The commander came back on.
“They got you, Slick. Comply. You know we can’t mess with restricted airspace. Over.”
“This is Two Three, I will— What the fuck! I’ve got— Christ, I don’t know what the hell it is. A bogey at three o’clock and climbing. I’ve never—”
The quiet, implacable voice of Dreamland Control cut in.
“Two Three, you will immediately cease transmitting, turn on a heading of one-eight-zero and descend for a landing at Groom Lake. That is a direct order. Over.”
The pilot of the F-15 was growing more agitated.
“This thing has no wings! And, man, it’s moving. It’s closing on me. We got a live one! I’m—”
There was a hiss of static.
“—was close!” Static. “On top of—” Static, “—my God! It’s turning—” Static. “Jesus! It’s—” The voice was suddenly cut off.
‘“Two Three! This is Six. What’s your status, Slick? Over.”
Silence.
“Break, Dreamland Control, this is Victor Six. Do you have Two Three on scope? Over.”
“Victor Six, this is Dreamland Control. You will return to Nellis Airfield immediately. The exercise is canceled. All aircraft are ordered grounded immediately. You will remain in your plane until cleared by security personnel. Over.”
“I want to know the status of Two Three. Over.”
“We’ve lost Two Three from our scope. We are initiating search and rescue. Comply with orders. There are to be no more transmissions. Out.”
The tape ended. Kelly sat still for a few seconds, considering what she had heard. She knew the name Dreamland well. She picked up Simmons’s letter.
Yeah, I know exactly what you’re thinking, Kelly. It could be a hoax or a setup like they did on you. But I talked to a friend of mine over at the local Air Force base. He said that
some of that sky out there near Nellis is the most restricted airspace in the country, even more so than that over the White House in D.C. He also said that pilots in the Red Flag exercises sometimes try to skate the edges of their aerial playing field on the regular Nellis Range and gain a tactical advantage by cutting across the restricted airspace. If that pilot did wander over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex or try to cut a corner, he might have seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Obviously he ran into something.
You know me. I’m heading out there to take a look. There’s enough interest in all of this that even if I get nothing about the pilot, I ought to at least be able to write a couple of articles about the Groom Lake complex. Maybe Technical or some other science-type magazine will buy.
So I’ll be out there on the night of the ninth. Now, I plan on being back home the tenth. I don’t want to hang around there any longer than I have to. I’ll give you a call, regardless, on the tenth by nine in the morning. At the absolute least if I can’t quite make it home by then I’ll change the message on my answering machine by remote before 9:00 a.m. on the tenth.
I know all this sounds melodramatic, but when I went down to El Salvador—a place no one remembers nowadays—it stood me in good stead to have someone waiting on a call. Held the assholes off from beating me too bad or keeping me forever when I got caught in places I wasn’t supposed to be. So if you don’t hear from me by 9:00 a.m. on the tenth, it means I got caught. Then I trust you to figure out what to do. You owe me, bud!
Wish me luck. By the way, if by chance—da-da-de- dum—drumroll, please, I get scarfed up by the authorities, you have a copy of the tape and the letter, and also I’ve enclosed a key to my apartment.
Thanks.
All of my love, all of my kisses!
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