Area 51

by Robert Doherty

  AREA 51

  Robert Doherty

  v1.0 (2011.06)

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  EPILOGUE

  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 1

  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 that 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.

  3 Nov 96

  Hey Kelly,

  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 post marked 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!

  Johnny

  Kelly didn’t need to check the calendar. The ninth was this evening. She gathered the tape out of her stereo and took it, along with the letters, to her desk. Then she used the key around her neck to open the file drawer. She withdrew a file labeled “Nellis” and laid it on the desktop.

  Flipping it open, she saw that the first document inside was a typed letter on official Air Force stationery. The signature block at the bottom indicated it was from the Public Affairs Officer at the base: Major Prague.

  “Asshole,” Kelly muttered as she remembered the man. She place Johnny Simmons’s letter and the tape inside, then replaced the folder in the drawer and locked it. The surface of the desk was clear, except for a silver-framed black-and-white photo of a young man dressed in khaki. He wore a black beret, and a Sten gun was slung over his shoulder.

  She was thoughtful as she kicked back in her chair and considered the photo. “Sounds like Johnny has nibbled at the hook, Dad.” She tapped a pencil against her lip, then sighed. “Damn you, Johnny. You’re always causing trouble, but this time I think you may have gone too far.”

  Nellis Air Force Base Range, Vicinity Groom Lake

  T - 144 Hours

  “Wait here,” Franklin ordered as he braked the battered Bronco II to a halt. There was no flash of brake lights. He had pulled the fuse for them prior to turning onto this dirt road. Johnny Simmons leaned forward in the passenger seat and squinted into the darkness. He had to assume that Franklin was so familiar with the road that he was able to drive it without headlights. Although the road did stand out as a lighter straight line on the otherwise dark ground, the trip through the dark was unnerving.

  Simmons rubbed his forehead. They were up several thousand feet in altitude and he felt a bit of a headache from the thinner air. He was a tall, thin man, his pale skin liberally sprinkled with freckles. Simmons appeared to be much younger than his thirty-eight years and his disheveled mane of bright red hair only added to the youthful image.

  Franklin walked to one side of the road and disappeared into the darker countryside for a few minutes, then his shadow crossed the road and was gone for a few more minutes. When he returned, he was holding four short green plastic rods in his hands.

  “Antennas for the sensors,” he explained. “I found the sensors last month. I wondered why the camo dudes were always onto me so quick. They’d show up within twenty minutes of me hitting this road. Then they’d call in the sheriff and it was just a plain hassle.”

  “How’d you find the detectors?” Simmons asked, covertly making sure the voice-activated microcassette recorder in his jacket pocket was turned on.

  “I used a receiver that scanned the band lengths. I drove around and stopped when I picked up something transmitting,” Franklin said. “Right at 495.45 megahertz.”

  �
��Why four antennas?” Simmons asked. “Wouldn’t two do?”

  Franklin shook his head. “They’re deployed in pairs on either side of the road. That way they can tell which way you’re going by the order they’re tripped in.” Franklin talked quickly, eager to impress Simmons with his knowledge.

  The simple logic quieted Simmons for a few moments. For the first time he wondered if he was biting off more than he could chew here. Since Area 51 wasn’t listed on any topographic maps, and all roads leading onto the Nellis Reservation were posted with no trespassing signs with ominous threats printed in red, Simmons had sought help. He’d met Franklin in Rachel, a small town on Route 375 that ran along the northeast side of the Nellis Reservation. Franklin was the person he’d been pointed to by “experts” in the UFO field as the man to see about getting a look at Area 51, the place the Air Force pilot had been overflying when he’d been accosted by Dreamland Control and whatever unknown object the pilot had seen.

  Simmons hadn’t been too surprised to find Franklin a young bearded man who looked more like he ought to be doing poetry reading at a college than leading people to look at a classified government facility. Franklin worked out of a small, dilapidated house where he self-published a monthly newsletter for UFO enthusiasts. He’d been thrilled when he’d seen Simmons’s credentials and publishing history. At last someone with a little bit of credibility and pull, had been the way Franklin had put it, and he’d promised to put Simmons as close to Area 51, the code name for the Groom Lake complex, as he possibly could.

  Simmons wondered if Franklin might not be the “Captain” who had sent him the tape and letter, but he didn’t think so. There didn’t seem to be any need for the subterfuge, and Franklin had seemed genuinely surprised to see him. They’d passed the “mailbox” farther back on the dirt road about twenty minutes ago and there had been two cars and a van parked there. UFO watchers had waved at the Bronco as they drove by. The mailbox, which was an actual small battered metal mailbox on the side of the road, was the last safe place to observe the sky over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex. To Johnny it was obvious that the watchers there weren’t surprised to see Franklin’s truck drive by.