“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.”
“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.