Turcotte looked up from the computer screen as Quinn appeared next to him. He had just finished typing in a brief query to Kelly Reynolds and was ready to hit the enter key, sending it through satellites into the stream of traffic going between the Alien Fleet and Easter Island. The US military was in a quandary about the message flow because if they cut off the Alien Fleet’s access to the MILSTAR communications system, they would also have to cut off all their other forces, thus making the system useless. So far, they had elected to keep the system running and send messages to forces using ground encryption.
Turcotte hesitated because he was afraid the message might get noted by the guardian or Aspasia’s Shadow, who might retaliate against Kelly. He’d phrased his query in a way that he thought only the reporter would understand and would seem innocuous to any sniffer program, but he understood he was risking her life with the message.
“What’s up?” Turcotte asked.
The major pointed toward the status board at the front of the room. “We’ve got a dozen inbound choppers along with a large fixed-wing plane.”
“Reinforcements?” Turcotte asked. Area 51 was operating at below bare minimums as far as personnel went, as orders from Washington had stripped most of their personnel. They had a half dozen people left from a regular staff of over three hundred.
“I’ve been trying to get us people,” Quinn said, “but I haven’t received any acknowledgments from the aircraft. They aren’t responding to hails.”
“Range?” Turcotte’s attention was torn away from the message he’d been composing.
“Ten klicks and closing fast.”
Turcotte was surprised to feel a kick of adrenaline, similar to what he had always felt before going into action. He knew that Washington — every government — was infiltrated by both alien groups in various ways. And even worse, there were the various human factions inside of each government now lining up in one of four ways: to side with Artad; to ally with Aspasia’s Shadow; to try to be neutral; or to fight both alien groups and their minions.
Three out of four options did not bode well for what they were trying to do there at Area 51, Turcotte thought. Not good odds.
“Have you copied everything onto CD-ROM?” he asked Quinn. “The archive material, Burton’s manuscript, all the Majestic records? Everything?”
“Yes.”
Turcotte could see the small dots on the large screen closing. The choppers were over the lake bed.
“Take the disks, get the others, and go to a bouncer,” Turcotte ordered. “What do—” Quinn began, but Turcotte cut him off.
“Do it now!”
Quinn still paused. “The doctor took Duncan to the medical hangar on the surface to run some tests,” Quinn said. “I can get Che Lu, Kincaid, and Mualama.”
“Then do it!” Turcotte yelled as he hit the send key for the message, then ran for the surface elevator.
Five Apache helicopter gunships led the way, followed by five UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters carrying troops. They were low over the desert floor, less than twenty feet up and moving fast.
Ten miles behind them was a specially modified C-130 transport plane with large red crosses painted on the wings and high tail. Turcotte could hear the choppers as he ran across the sand toward the medical building. It was about a quarter mile from the hangar doors and next to the runway tower.
An Apache helicopter swooped in front of him, 30mm cannon aimed directly at him.
Turcotte ignored it, trusting that American soldiers, regardless of their orders, would not fire at an unarmed man. He reached the door of the medical building as a Blackhawk landed fifty meters away in a swirl of blowing dust. A dozen men dressed in camouflage jumped out.
Turcotte threw the door open. “Lisa!”
There was no response. He ran down the hallway and twisted the knob on the lab room. It was locked. Turcotte slammed his boot into the door, right above the knob. The wood splintered. He shoved it open and stepped inside. Duncan was on the examining table, her eyes closed. Turcotte rushed to her side.
“Lisa?”
He started as he felt a sharp jab in his right arm. He spun, open left hand slamming into the doctor’s chest. The white-coated figure flew backward, syringe falling from his fingers. The doctor tried to get up and Turcotte hit him hard on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.
Turcotte turned back to the table, trying to scoop Duncan up, but his arms were weak. He couldn’t lift her. Turcotte strained, putting every ounce of effort he could muster into it. He slumped to his knees, leaning against the table.
He sensed people behind him. He collapsed, body turning as he did so. He was seated on the floor, his back against the table, unable to move at all. He couldn’t even move his eyeballs. He could see a half dozen soldiers fill the room. Two of them picked up Duncan and carried her out. An officer knelt in front of Turcotte. The officer checked his pulse, then looked over his uniform, noting the various patches. The man bit his lip with indecision. Then he stood.
“Let’s go,” the officer ordered.
“But, sir, we’re supposed to arrest all—” one of the men began. “That’s an order,” the officer said.
The men and doctor exited the room, leaving a helpless Turcotte.
“Come on.” Quinn ripped the laptop computer out of Che Lu’s hands to lighten her load as they ran across the hangar floor toward the waiting bouncer. Yakov, Mualama, and Kincaid were already climbing up the side of the bouncer. The massive doors were partly open and they could all hear helicopters close by. The snout of an Apache helicopter poked through the empty hangar doors. The multibarreled 30mm chain gun under the nose of the craft snooped about, linked to the sight flipped down in front of the gunner’s eye. Wherever the gunner turned his head, the barrel of the chain gun followed. And the gunner was obviously now watching the five members of the Area 51 team scurry onto the bouncer.
Balanced precariously on the top of the bouncer, Yakov pulled a pistol out and aimed it at the gunship.
“No!” Quinn yelled as he reached the side of the craft. Yakov’s finger was on the trigger, but he hesitated.
Inside the Apache the gunner had Yakov square in the reticules of his HADSS — Helmet and Display Sighting System — a monocular just inches from his right eye. “Warning rounds,” the pilot ordered over the intercom.
The gunner turned his head slightly and squeezed the trigger. A burst of 30mm rounds — each the size of a milk bottle — ripped through the air and hit the skin of the bouncer five feet to the right of Yakov, ricocheting off.
Major Quinn was knocked off his feet onto his back as Che Lu slammed into his chest. He blinked and tried to get up, but the Chinese scientist was on top of him. He felt something wet soaking into his chest and when he looked down saw that a round had punched through the old woman’s slight frame.
“Oh, God,” Quinn whispered as he slid her to the floor.
Yakov slid down the bouncer and joined him, kneeling next to Che Lu and tenderly placing a large hand around her neck, searching for a pulse.
“She’s gone,” Yakov said.
“It can’t be,” Quinn whispered.
“Get on board,” Yakov stood, the pistol in his hand. He brought it up and aimed at the cockpit of the Apache. He squeezed off six shoots in rapid succession. They impacted harmlessly on the armored cockpit.
Quinn tried to ignore the blood soaking through his uniform as he climbed onto the side of the bouncer, reaching up and taking Mualama’s outstretched hand. The African literally pulled him up and tossed him into the open hatch. He quickly slid into the pilot’s depression, taking the controls into his shaking hands. Mualama was down next, followed by Yakov. Kincaid was strapping down gear as Quinn lifted the bouncer off the floor of the hangar. He accelerated directly toward the Apache blocking the opening. It bobbed left, narrowly missing getting rammed.