Turcotte looked at the weapon, looked at Prague, then pulled out two plastic cinches from his vest and secured the couple’s hands behind their backs.
“Let me see your ID,” the man demanded. “You can’t be doing this. We didn’t do nothing wrong. You ain’t cops.”
“Get in the helicopter,” Prague ordered. He herded the procession toward the AH-6.
“Where are you taking us?” the man asked, standing stubbornly in the middle of the road just short of the helicopter, the girl still cowering at his side.
Turcotte looked at Prague and saw the way the man’s body was set, saw his finger shifting from outside the trigger guard to inside, a sure sign he was about to fire.
Turcotte had been trained just like Prague: the only safety was the finger off the trigger.
Turcotte quickly stepped in between. “Just do as he says. We’ll get this sorted once we get back to base. There’s been an accident,” he added lamely. “I’m Mike,” he said, tapping the man on the shoulder and pointing at the helicopter, the sudden human gesture momentarily disorienting the couple. The man looked at Turcotte. “Billy. This here’s Susie.”
Turcotte nudged them toward the helicopter. “Well, Billy and Susie, looks like the man wants you to go for a ride.”
“Shut up, meat,” Prague snarled, gesturing with the weapon.
They got into the helicopter and the pilot lifted.
The Cube, Area 51
A third dot was now on the screen, popping on the screen over eastern Nevada and heading almost directly toward Bouncer Three, which was returning to base. Gullick knew that was Aurora on its way to intercept the bogey.
“The bogey is dropping off the chase, sir,” Quinn reported. The bogey was circling, heading back in toward the Nightscape objective.
“Redirect Aurora toward Nebraska,” Gullick ordered.
Quinn complied.
“Aurora ETA at the objective?” Gullick immediately demanded.
“Ten minutes,” Quinn announced.
Not bad time to cover almost twelve hundred miles. But in this case it might be about nine minutes too late, Gullick reflected as he watched the symbol that represented the bogey close on the target site. He briefly considered ordering Bouncer Three to turn around, but that was beyond the present scope of his authority. Gullick smashed his fist down onto the desk in front of him, startling those in the Cube.
* * *
The AH-6 cleared the trees at the edge of a field and turned to the north. Turcotte had strapped the man and woman into the backseat and squeezed in next to them.
Prague was twisted around in the right front seat, the barrel of his Calico pointed rearward, his finger caressing the outside of the trigger guard.
Turcotte looked at the muzzle, then at Prague. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point that thing at me,” he said into the boom mike. Turcotte was scared. Not so much because of the gun pointed at him, although that was a problem, but more because the man holding the gun was acting so irrationally. What did Prague think he was going to do with these two civilians?
“I don’t give a fuck what you’d appreciate,” Prague answered over the intercom. “You questioned me in the middle of a mission. That’s a no-go, meat. I’m going to have your ass.”
“These people are civilians,” Turcotte said. The couple were ignorant of the conversation because they weren’t wearing headsets.
“They’re fucking dead meat now, as far as I’m concerned,” Prague said. “They saw too much. They’ll have to go to the facility at Dulce and get clipped.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, or what you’re talking about,” Turcotte said, “but they’re—” He halted as the helicopter suddenly jerked hard right, then dropped altitude.
“What are you doing?” Prague yelled at the pilot, keeping his attention on the backseat.
“We got company!” the pilot screamed in return. A brightly glowing orb — about three feet in diameter — appeared directly in front of the windshield. The pilot slammed the collective down and pushed the cyclic forward in evasive reaction, but the glow dipped right down with them and crashed into the front of the helicopter. There was a shattering of Plexiglas and Turcotte ducked his head.
“Prepare for crash!” the pilot yelled into the intercom.
“We’re going—” The rest of his sentence was cut off as the nose of the chopper impacted with the ground. The blades cartwheeled into the soft dirt and exploded off, miraculously pinwheeling away and not slashing through the body of the aircraft.
Turcotte felt a sharp rip in his right side, then everything became still. He lifted his head. The only sound was a high pitched scream. He turned to his left. Susie’s mouth was a wide-open and the sound was emanating from it. Billy’s eyes were open and he was blinking, trying to see in the dark. Turcotte reached down and unbuckled Billy’s seat belt, then whipped out his commando knife and cut the couple’s hands free. “Get out,” he said, nudging them toward the left door, before turning his attention to the front seat.
The pilot was hanging limp in his harness, his right arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Prague was beginning to stir.
His Calico was gone, thrown from the aircraft on impact.
The smell of JP-4 aviation fuel was strong in the air. As soon as it hit a hot metal surface such as the engine exhaust, the helicopter would be an inferno. Prague appeared to be fumbling with his seat belt. Turcotte leaned over between the two front seats, ignoring the explosion of pain that movement ignited on his right side. Prague’s right hand was flipping open the cover to his holster. “Don’t let them get away,” he rasped at Turcotte.
He had the gun out and pointed it back toward Billy, who was helping Susie out of the door.
Turcotte reacted, slamming the inside edge of his left hand across Prague’s throat, feeling cartilage give way, while with his right hand he hammered down on Prague’s gun hand, hearing the forearm bone crack against the edge of the seat. Prague’s eyes bulged, and he gasped through his mangled throat.
Turcotte followed Billy and Susie out the left rear door.
“Keep moving,” he ordered, pushing them away. A flame flickered somewhere in the rear of the helicopter. Staying with the aircraft, Turcotte reached in the front seat and unbuckled the pilot. Prague’s left hand suddenly moved, slashing across his body at Turcotte with his knife. The blade cut through the Gore-Tex jacket and inflicted a gash on Turcotte’s right forearm.
Pinning Prague’s left hand with his right, Turcotte leaned over the pilot and hit Prague again in the throat with his left, this time not holding back as he had the first time. The cartilage completely gave way and Prague’s airway was blocked.
Turcotte threw the pilot over his shoulder. He jogged away from the helicopter as it burst into flames.
CHAPTER 9
The Cube, Area 51
T — 117 Hours, 45 Minutes
“Nightscape Six is down, sir,” Quinn announced. “I have a transponder location. No communication by radio.”
“Launch a conventional crash recovery to the transponder location,” General Gullick ordered. He continued to watch the dot representing the bogey. It was slowly moving about in the vicinity of Nightscape Six’s transponder signal. Aurora was now approaching the Nebraska-Colorado border.
Vicinity Bloomfield, Nebraska
T — 117 Hours, 42 Minutes
“Get out of here,” Turcotte said to Susie and Billy, who were staring at the burning helicopter. Turcotte had the pilot’s flight suit ripped open and was going over the man’s vital signs, doing a primary survey — for breathing first, then bleeding, then checking for broken bones. The pilot was good to go on the first two other than some scrapes and cuts. There was an obvious broken arm.
Turcotte couldn’t tell for sure, but based on the large dent on the man’s helmet and his unconscious condition, he felt the pilot had some sort of head injury, and he was not trained or equipped to deal with that. All he could do was leave
the helmet on and hope that it contained the injury until he could get the man some professional medical help. The pilot was unconscious, and from his condition it did not appear that he would be gaining consciousness anytime soon, which was fine with Turcotte. He immobilized the broken arm as well as he could.
“But—” Billy said, confused. “What—”
“No buts; no questions; no memory,” Turcotte snapped, looking up from the pilot’s body. “Forget everything that happened tonight. Don’t ever tell anyone, because if you do they won’t believe you and then people who don’t want you talking will come looking for you. Leave it here and go.”
Billy didn’t need any further urging. He took Susie by the arm and quickly walked away in the darkness toward the nearest road.
He looked down at himself. Blood was seeping out the right side of his Gore-Tex jacket and his right sleeve. He dealt with the forearm first, wrapping a bandage from his combat vest over the sliced skin and stopping the bleeding.
Carefully probing with his fingers, he reached in through the jacket and gasped when he touched torn skin. Turcotte carefully unzipped his Gore-Tex jacket and jumpsuit. An eight-inch-long gash was just over the outside of his ribs.
As best he could, he bandaged the wound.
Turcotte looked up into the sky. He could see the small glowing object, about a thousand feet overhead. It was lazily moving about, as if to view the results of its actions. He watched for a few moments, but there did not appear to be any immediate threat. Although from the way that thing had been moving, Turcotte didn’t think he would have much time to react if there were.
Turcotte scanned the horizon. The others would be here soon. And then? That was the burning question. He’d killed Prague on reflex. He didn’t regret it, given what he’d seen Prague do this evening, but the situation was very confusing and Turcotte wasn’t sure what his next move should be.
Had Prague known he was a plant? That would explain some of his actions, but not all of them. And if Prague hadn’t known he was a plant, then the man had been borderline nuts; unless, Turcotte reminded himself, there was another layer to everything that he had just witnessed. He knew the actions, he just didn’t know the motivation.
None of that was going to do him any good, Turcotte knew, unless he could get back to Duncan with what he had just seen, and to do that he was going to have to get away from these Nightscape people. The pilot’s unconscious condition would buy him some time once they were picked up. It would simply be Turcotte’s story, and he began working on what he would tell them.
The Cube
Gullick had complete telemetry feedback from Aurora and he could listen in on the pilot and reconnaissance systems officer (RSO) talking to each other.
“All systems on. We’ll be in range of target in seventy-five seconds,” the RSO announced.
Gullick keyed his mike. “Aurora, this is Cube Six. I want a good shot of this target. Get it on the first pass. You probably won’t have an opportunity for a second. Over.”
“Roger that, Cube Six,” the RSO said. “Fifty seconds.”
“Descending through ten thousand,” the pilot announced. “Slowing through two point five. The look will be right,” he told the RSO, giving a direction to orient all the sophisticated reconnaissance systems on board the aircraft.
“Pod deploying,” the RSO said as the speed gauge continued to go down. Gullick knew that now that the plane was under two thousand miles an hour the surveillance pod could be extended. Doing it at higher speeds would have destroyed the necessary aerodynamics of the plane and caused the plane to break and burn. Even now, according to the telemetry, the skin temperature of the aircraft was eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. “Twenty seconds. All green.”
“Leveling at five thousand. Steady at Mach two.”
“All systems on.”
Gullick looked up to the large screen at the front of the room. The red triangle representing Aurora closed on and passed the small dot indicating the bogey. Then the bogey darted away.
Gullick keyed the mike, “This is Cube Six. The bogey is running! Vector one nine zero degrees. Pursue!”
Aurora was fast, but maneuverable it wasn’t. Gullick watched as the red triangle began a long turn that would encompass most of Nebraska and part of Iowa before it was through. The small dot was heading southwest, currently over Kansas.
“What’s the bogey’s speed?” General Gullick asked.
“Computer estimates it’s moving at Mach three point six,” Major Quinn replied.
As the bogey crossed the panhandle of Oklahoma, Aurora completed its turn over southern Nebraska. “She’ll catch up,” Gullick said.
The two dots continued, Aurora steadily closing the gap.
“Bogey’s over Mexican airspace,” Quinn reported. He hesitated, but duty required that he speak. “Are you authorizing Aurora to continue pursuit?”
“Shit,” Gullick said. “The Mexicans won’t even know it’s there. Too high and too fast. And even if they get a blip on radar it will be gone in a blink and there’s nothing they can do about it anyway. Damn right it’s to pursue.”
The length of Mexico was traversed in less than twelve minutes, Aurora now less than a thousand miles behind the bogey and closing rapidly.
“Intercept in eight minutes,” Quinn announced.
Vicinity Bloomfield, Nebraska
Turcotte heard the choppers long before they arrived. The Blackhawk landed on the opposite side of the crash and discharged a squad of men with fire extinguishers. Turcotte knew that by daylight there would be nothing in the field other than some charred cornstalks. The other AH-6 landed right next to his location.
“Where’s Major Prague?” the man who ran off the helicopter asked. Turcotte pointed at the crash site. “Killed on impact.”
The man knelt down next to the pilot. “What’s his status?”
“Broken arm. I think he has a concussion. I haven’t taken his helmet off, to keep the pressure on in case his skull is fractured.”
The man signaled for the pilot to be place on board the Blackhawk. He pointed to Turcotte. “You come with me. They want you back at the Cube.”
The Cube
“Sir, Aurora already has a photo of the bogey,” Quinn said.
“What do you want it to do when it catches up?”
The Aurora was purely a reconnaissance plane. Mounting any sort of weapon system, even missiles, would have destroyed its aerodynamic form and reduced its speed drastically.
“I want to find out where this bogey comes from,” Gullick said. “Then I can send other people to take care of the problem.”
Both indicators were now over the eastern beginning of the Pacific Ocean.
The RSO’s voice hissed in Gullick’s ear. “Cube Six, this is Aurora. Request you lay on some fuel for us on the return flight. We will be past the point of no return in fifteen minutes. Over.”
“This is Cube Six. Roger. We’re scrambling some tankers for you. Keep on its tail. Out.” Gullick pointed at Quinn, who was also monitoring the radio.
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Quinn said.
The Mexican coastline was now long gone. Gullick knew that the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Central and South America — other than Canal traffic — was a very desolate place. They were still heading almost due south.
“We’re close,” the pilot announced. “It’s about two hundred miles ahead of us. I’m throttling back to ease up on it.”
Gullick watched the telemetry. It reminded him of being ground support when he was a test pilot. Reading the same gauges that the pilot overhead did, but not having hands on the controls. As the plane passed through Mach 2.5 the RSO extended the surveillance pod and activated his low-level light television (LLLTV) camera. Gullick immediately had the image relayed through a satellite onto the screen in front of him. The LLLTV was no ordinary television. The camera enhanced both the light and image, giving it the ability to display an image at night, while at the same time
carrying a magnification of over one hundred. The RSO began scanning ahead, using the information fed to him from the satellites above to pinpoint the bogey.
“Eighty miles,” the pilot announced.
“Sixty.”
“I’ve got it!” the RSO yelled.
In the small television screen Gullick could see a small dot. As if on cue the dot suddenly jerked to the right, a splash of water shot up, and it was gone. Gullick leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, his forehead furrowed in pain.
“Cube Six, this is Aurora. Bogey is down. I say again. Bogey is down. Transmitting grid location.”
CHAPTER 10
The Cube, Area 51
T — 114 Hours
General Gullick poured himself a cup of coffee, then took his chair at the head of the conference table. He took a pair of painkiller pills out of his pocket and swallowed them, washing them down with a swig of scalding coffee.
Slowly the reports started coming back.
“Aurora is returning,” Major Quinn reported. “ETA in twenty-two minutes. We have the exact location where the bogey went down into the ocean.”
Gullick looked at the inner circle of Majic-12, who were in the room. Each man knew his area of responsibility, and as the orders were issued, each took the appropriate action. “Admiral Coakley, the bogey is in your area of operations now. I want whatever you have floating closest to the spot on top of it ASAP! I want you to be ready to go down and recover that thing.
“Mr. Davis, I want the information from Aurora downloaded to Major Quinn and I want to know what that thing is.”
“Already working on the digital relay,” Davis replied. “I’ll have the hard copy from the pod as soon as it touches down.”
Gullick was mentally ticking off all that had happened, but it was very hard for him to think clearly. “What’s the status at the crash site?”
Quinn was ready, the earplug in his right ear giving him a live feed from the man in charge on the ground in Nebraska. “Fire is out. Recovery team is en route and will be on site in twenty minutes. Those present on the scene from Nightscape are cleaning up the pieces and providing security. Still no response from locals. I think we’ll make it clear.”
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