Area 51 a5-1

by Robert Doherty

  “It will be a disaster if we activate the mothership,” Von Seeckt cut in, looking at Duncan. “We have no clue how it operates. Oh, these fools will tell you we understand the control system, but that has nothing to do with the mechanics and the physics of the engine itself. It is like inviting a man into the cockpit of an advanced nuclear bomber and believing that the man can operate the bomber because he can drive his car and the yoke of the bomber is very much like the steering wheel of the car. It is madness.”

  Gullick’s left eyebrow twitched but his voice was calm.

  “Thank you, Dr. Von Seeckt, but we have been over all that ground already. We will never understand the mothership if we do not attempt to investigate it. That is the method we have used on the bouncers and—”

  “And we still don’t understand the bouncers’ propulsion systems!” Von Seeckt threw in.

  “But we’re flying the bouncers and using them,” Doctor Ferrell, the physicist, said. “And we are getting closer every day to figuring them out.”

  “It is dangerous to play with tools we don’t understand!” Von Seeckt cried out.

  “Is this test dangerous?” Duncan asked, calm in contrast to Von Seeckt’s wavering and excited voice.

  Gullick looked across the table at her. Just before this meeting he had studied the classified file Kennedy had amassed on her. He knew more about her than she probably remembered about herself. Thirty-seven, twice divorced, a son in private high school back in Washington, a doctorate in medical biology from Stanford, a successful career in business, and now, due to her friendship with the First Lady, a political appointee to perhaps the most sensitive post in the administration. Of course, Gullick knew, the President didn’t fully comprehend the importance of Majic-12. And that was one of the Catch-22’s of the secrecy surrounding the project. Because they couldn’t really tell anyone what was going on, they were often neglected in the big scheme. But there were ways around that and the members of Majic-12 had long ago perfected those ways.

  “Ma’am,” Gullick said, reverting to the military form of addressing a woman, “everything is dangerous, but test-flying is probably the most dangerous occupation in the world. I flew experimental aircraft early in my career. Over the course of a year at Edwards Air Force Base, eight of the twelve men in my squadron were killed working out the bugs in a new airframe. And here we are dealing with alien technology. We didn’t design these craft. But we do have an advantage,” Gullick added. “We are dealing with technology that works. The largest danger I faced as a test pilot was getting the technology up to speed so it would work. Here we know these craft fly. It is a matter of figuring out how they fly.”

  Gullick turned his chair slightly and pointed at the mothership sitting in its cradle of steel beams. “We are currently slightly over one hundred and thirty hours from the first test flight. But before we attempt that, we simply are going to start it up and see what happens. That is the reason this meeting is scheduled for today: so you can see for yourself in a few hours that there is no danger. To use Dr. Von Seeckt’s analogy — but in the proper perspective — we are simply going to put our man in the pilot’s seat and have him turn the engines on and then off. The craft won’t go anywhere. And our man is not a child. We have the best minds in the country assembled here working on this project.”

  Von Seeckt snorted. “We had the best minds back in eighty-nine when—”

  “That’s enough, Doctor,” Gullick snapped. “The decision has been made. This is an information briefing, not a decision briefing. At thirteen hundred hours local time to-day the mothership’s engines will be turned on for ten seconds and then immediately turned off. The decision has been made,” he repeated. “Now, shall we move on with the briefing?” It was not a question designed to be answered with anything but assent.

  For the next thirty minutes the meeting went as scheduled with no further interruptions. Gullick formally brought it to a close. “Dr. Duncan, if you would like, you might want to take a tour of the hangar and our other facilities and be present when we conduct the test on the mothership.”

  “I would like that very much,” she replied, “but first I’d like a moment alone with you.”

  “If you would excuse us, gentlemen,” Gullick said. “Designated personnel, please wait outside,” he added.

  “There’s quite a bit that I don’t understand,” Lisa Duncan said as soon as the room was clear.

  “There’s quite a bit we don’t understand,” General Gullick amended. “The technology we are working with here is overwhelming at times.”

  “I’m not talking about the technology,” Duncan said. “I’m talking about the administration of this program.”

  “Is there a problem?” Gullick asked, his voice chilling the room.

  Duncan was blunt. “Why the secrecy? Why are we hiding all this?”

  Gullick relaxed slightly. “Numerous reasons.”

  “Please enumerate them,” Duncan said.

  Gullick lit a cigar, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs that adorned the walls of the Cube conference room. Government bureaucracy found itself into even the most secret of locations. “This program began during World War II, and that was the reason it was initially classified. Then there was the Cold War and the requirement to keep this technology — what we did understand of it — out of the hands of the Russians. One study by our staff even found a high possibility that if the Russians ever discovered that we had this technology it would upset the balance of power and they might launch a preemptive nuclear strike. I would say that’s a damn good reason to keep this secret.”

  Duncan pulled a cigarette out of her purse. She pointed at the ashtray for Gullick’s cigar. “Do you mind?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she lit up. “The Cold War has been over for over half a decade, General. Keep counting the reasons.”

  A muscle twitched on the right side of Gullick’s jaw.

  “The Cold War may be over, but there are still nuclear missiles pointed at this country by foreign countries. We are dealing with technology here that might totally change the course of civilization. That is sufficient—”

  “Could it be,” Duncan cut in, “that all this is classified simply because it’s always been classified?”

  “I understand what you’re saying.” Gullick attempted a disarming smile that didn’t work. He ran a finger over the file folder that held Kennedy’s report on Duncan and restrained an impulse to throw it at her. “It would be easy to see the secrecy surrounding Majic-12 as simply a leftover from the Cold War, but there are deeper implications here.”

  “Such as?” Duncan didn’t wait for an answer. “Could part of those deeper implications be that this project had been founded illegally? That the importation of people such as Von Seeckt to work in it — in direct violation of law and a presidential order in force at the time — and other activities since then would open up personnel involved in this program to criminal prosecution?”

  The glowing red numbers set into the desktop next to the computer screen read T-130H/16M. That was all that concerned Gullick. He’d talked to a few of the others about how to handle Duncan and now it was time to start with what they had come up with.

  “Whatever happened fifty years ago is not our concern,” he said. “We are worried about the impact publicizing this program will have on the general population.

  “Dr. Slayden, the program psychologist,” Gullick said, “is on our staff for this very reason. As a matter of fact, we will have a briefing from Dr. Slayden at eight A.M. on the twelfth. He’ll be able to explain things better then, but suffice it to say that the social and economic implications of revealing what we have here at Area 51 to the public are staggering. So staggering that every president since World War II has agreed that the utmost secrecy should surround this project.”

  “Well, this president,” Duncan said, “may think differently. The times are changing. An immense amount of money has been poured into this project and the return has been minimal.”
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  “If we fly the mothership,” Gullick said, “it will all be worth it.” Duncan stubbed out her cigarette and stood. “I hope so. Good day, sir.” She turned on her high heels and walked out the door.

  As soon as she was gone, the Majic-12 men in uniform and the representatives from the CIA and NRO came back in. All attempt at being cordial slipped from Gullick’s demeanor. “Duncan’s fishing. She knows there something more going on.” “We need to have Slayden give her the data on the implications of revealing the project,” Kennedy said.

  “I told her about Slayden’s briefing and she’s got his written report already,” Gullick said. “No, she’s looking for something more.”

  “Do you think she has something on Dulce?” Kennedy asked.

  “No. If there was any suspicion about that, we’d know about it. We’re wired into every intelligence apparatus this country has. It has to be something else.” “Operation Paperclip?” Kennedy asked.

  Gullick nodded. “She made a point of mentioning that Von Seeckt and others were recruited illegally. She knows too much. If they pull on that thread too hard, this whole thing might unravel.”

  Kennedy pointed at the folder. “We can go hard with her if we need to.” “She’s the President’s representative,” General Brown warned.

  “We just need time,” Gullick said. “I think Slayden’s psychobabble will keep her occupied. If not”—Gullick shrugged—“then we go hard.” He looked down at the computer screen and changed the subject. “What’s the status of Nightscape 96-7?” Gullick asked the director of Naval intelligence.

  “Everything looks good,” Admiral Coakley answered.

  “The MSS is secure and all elements are in place.”

  “What about the infiltration by that reporter and the other person last night?” Gullick asked.

  “We’ve cleaned it all up and there’s an added benefit to that situation,” Coakley said. “That other fellow’s name was Franklin. A UFO freak. He’s been a pain in the ass for a long time working out of his house in Rachel. We no longer have to worry about him. He’s dead and we have an adequate cover story in place.”

  “How did they get inside the outer perimeter?” Gullick demanded, not appeased at all.

  “Franklin unscrewed the antennas from the sensors on either side of the road,” Coakley replied. “We got that off a cassette recorder we found on the reporter.”

  “I want that system replaced. It’s outdated. Go with laser sensors on all the roads.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the reporter?”

  “He’s been transferred to Dulce. He was a freelancer. We’re working on a back story for his disappearance.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Gullick said, his tone of voice indicating it was not a question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about Von Seeckt?” Kennedy asked. “If he makes any more trouble, Duncan might start asking more questions.”

  Gullick rubbed the side of his temple. “He’s become a liability. We’ll just have to move up his medical timetable. We’ll take care of the good doctor and insure he won’t cause any more problems. He outlived his usefulness to this program a long time ago. I’ll talk to Dr. Cruise.”

  The Devil’s Nest, Nebraska

  T — 130 Hours

  “What’s that?” Turcotte asked.

  The man in the gray flight suit looked up. “Laser firing system,” he said shortly, snapping shut the metal case on the sophisticated machinery that had drawn Turcotte ‘s attention.

  Turcotte had never seen a laser that was packed suitcase size, but the technician did not seem amenable to discussing the technology. Another question to add to all the others.

  “Get some sleep. You’ll need the rest,” Prague said, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “We’ll be ready to move after dark and you won’t get any sleep for a while.” Prague smiled. “Sleep good, meat, “ he added in German.

  Turcotte stared at him for a second, then walked over to where the other off-shift security men were dozing in the shade offered by several trees. He grabbed a Gore-Tex bivy sack and slid into it, zipping it up around his chin. He thought about everything he had seen so far for about five minutes, wondering what Prague had been told about him.

  He finally decided he didn’t have a clue what was going on or what Prague knew, and switched his brain off.

  As he fell asleep, his mind shifted to other scenes.

  Prague’s final words in German echoed through his brain and Turcotte fell into an uneasy slumber with the echo of gunfire and German voices screaming in fear and pain.

  The Hangar, Area 51

  T — 129 Hours, 40 Minutes

  Lisa Duncan had read the figures and studied the classified photos, but they had not prepared her for the sheer size of this operation. Flying into Area 51 on board one of their black helicopters, she had been impressed with the long runway and the aboveground base facilities, but that impression had been dwarfed by what was hidden out of sight.

  Taking the elevator up from the Cube, she and her scientific escorts entered a large room carved out of the rock of Groom Mountain. This was the hangar, over three quarters of a mile long and a quarter mile wide. Three of the walls, the floor, and roof — one hundred feet above their heads — were rock. The last side was a series of camouflaged sliding doors that opened up onto the north end of the runway.

  The true size of the hangar could only be seen on the rare occasions, like now, when all the dividers between the various bays were unfolded and a person could look straight through from one end to the other. Duncan wondered if they had done that to impress her. If they had, it was working.

  She was still bothered by her confrontation with General Gullick. She’d been briefed for the job by the President’s national security adviser, but even he had seemed uncertain about what was going on with Majic-12. It actually wasn’t that surprising to Duncan. In her work with medical companies she’d often had to deal with government bureaucracy and found it to be a formidable maze of self-propagating, self-serving structures to negotiate. As Gullick had made very clear: Majic-12 had been around for fifty-four years. The unspoken parallel was that the President whom Duncan was working for had been around for only three. She knew that meant that the members of Majic-12 implicitly believed they had a greater legitimacy than the elected officials who were supposed to oversee the project.

  The CIA, NSA, the Pentagon — all were bureaucracies that had weathered numerous administrations and changes in the political winds. Majic-12 was another one, albeit much more secretive. The issue, though, was why were Gullick and the others in such a rush to fly the mothership?

  That issue and other disturbing rumors about Majic-12 operations that had sifted their way back to Washington was the reason Duncan was here. She already had some dirt on the program, as she’d indicated to Gullick; but that was past dirt, as he’d indicated in return. Most of the men involved in Paperclip were long dead. She had to find out what was presently happening. To do that she had to pay attention, so when her guide spoke up, she put away her worries.

  “This is the hangar we built in 1951,” Professor Underhill, the aeronautics expert, explained. “We’ve added to it over the years.” He pointed at the nine silvery craft parked in their cradles. “You have all the information on how and where we found the bouncers. Currently, six are operational.”

  “What about the other three?” she asked.

  “Those are the ones we’re working on. Taking apart the engines to see if we can reverse-engineer them. Trying to understand the control and flight system along with other technology.”

  She nodded and followed as they walked along the back of the hangar. There were workers on each of the craft, doing things whose purpose was unclear. She had indeed studied the history of these craft, which seemed simply to have been abandoned in various places some time in the past. From the conditions of the locations they were found in, the best guess had been about ten thousand years ago.<
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  The craft themselves seemed not to have aged at all.

  There had been very few answers about the origin or purpose or original owners of the craft in the briefing papers. Something that didn’t seem to concern the people out here very much. That bothered Duncan, because she liked thinking in analogies and she wondered how she would feel if she had left her car parked somewhere and came back later to find that it had been appropriated and someone was taking the engine apart. Even though the bouncers had been abandoned long ago, centuries might be just a day or two in the relative time scale of the original owners.

  “Why does everyone out here call them ‘bouncers’?” she asked. “In the briefing papers they were called ‘magnetic-drive atmospheric craft’ or ‘MDAC’ or simply ‘disks’.

  Underhill laughed. “We use the ‘MDAC’ for scientific people who need a fancy title. We all call them ‘disks’ or ‘bouncers.’ The reason for the latter, well, wait till you see one in flight. They can change directions on a dime. Most people who watch them think we call them ‘bouncers’ because they do seem to suddenly bounce off an invisible wall when they change direction — that’s how quick they can do it. But if you talk to the original test pilots who flew them, they called them ‘bouncers’ because of the way they got thrown around on the inside during those abrupt maneuvers. It took us quite a while to come up with the technology and flight parameters so that the pilots wouldn’t be injured when they had the aircraft at speed.”

  Underhill pointed at a metal door along the back wall.

  “This way, please.”

  The door slid open as they approached, and inside was an eight-passenger train on an electric monorail. Duncan stepped into the car along with Underhill, Von Seeckt, Slayden, Ferrel, and Cruise. The car immediately started up and they were whisked into a brightly lit tunnel.

  Underhill continued to play tour guide. “It’s a little over four miles to Hangar Two, where we found the mothership. In fact, that’s the reason this base is here. Most people think we picked this site because of the isolation, but that was simply an added benefit.