A knock came at the door, and Sally Montry poked her ash-blond head into the room. “PK’s here, Mr. Waterloo.” Sally wasn’t beautiful, but the statuesque attractiveness made people think of her as a ‘handsome’ fortyish woman. Uncle Mike had often commented on her impeccable competence.
“Thanks. Send him in.”
PK Dirks stood uneasily outside the door. He looked at Sally with a strange expression, but the secretary walked coolly past him. Dirks flicked his eyes, then stepped into the administrative office. “The rest of the inspection team is here,” he said with forced good humor, scratching his reddish beard, “whenever Ms. Mitchell is ready to head out.”
Uncle Mike looked at Paige wearily. “Want me to go along?”
“I can handle it,” said Paige. “I’ve given my cell phone number to the ME, but I need you here to field general calls. Half the State Department will want to fly into town within the next few days, so anything you can do to satisfy them will help me.”
“Sally can let them know it’s all under control — she’s good at that.”
Paige nodded to PK Dirks, following the chubby, bearded technician out of the offices. “Let’s round up the Russians and go sightseeing.”
The white government van hummed along on the two-lane road, heading south and then west. While Paige drove, PK Dirks sat in the front passenger seat, turning his head to speak to the seven Russians in back.
“NTS is a big place, roughly the size of our state of Rhode Island,” Dirks said. “I don’t know how that compares to the size of old Soviet installations.”
The area was dry and desolate, some parts as flat as glass. In the midday sun occasional streaks of paler tan splashed the broad plain like a watercolor wash. Scarecrowish Joshua Trees mottled the landscape along with mesquite, brush sage, and gray-green thistles. Jagged mountains lay in angled strips on every horizon. Nothing looked remotely soft, as far as Paige could see. The sky was as clear as a blue magnifying glass, but she knew that sudden and violent thunderstorms could roll in at any time.
The Russians spoke little, still in shock at the death of their team leader. Paige knew the thoughts going through their minds: Had it been lax security at the DAF, or was it a sophisticated coverup for something more sinister? What had Nevsky been doing alone in a restricted area, far from the glove boxes?
Paige had seen other accident investigations and the inevitable result. Fingers had to be pointed, and for a tragedy of this magnitude the DAF would have to cough up at least one scapegoat — probably someone like Jorgenson or PK Dirks. She dreaded the repercussions might ripple as high as the DAF Manager, Uncle Mike.…
Paige caught a glimpse of figures moving overland across the desert up ahead. People… walking along like a group of hikers crossing the road. She squinted. “Who’s that?”
Dirks leaned forward. “Shouldn’t be anyone out here, ma’am. Slow down,” he said. “This is a security zone, not a Boyscout jamboree.”
The three hikers cut across the road as they headed north toward the distant range of mesas. They turned to face the oncoming van as if hoping to hitch a ride. How had they managed to get past NTS security? Several sequential gates phased people into various sections of the site; mobile ground and airborne guard forces monitored the area for intruders.
But apparently not well enough.
“Ma’am,” said Dirks, speaking more urgently now, “maybe we should use the CB to call security?” The Russians spoke excitedly among themselves, catching a glimpse of what was going on.
Paige handed Dirks the CB microphone as she pulled up next to the two men and a woman. One of the men was extremely thin and tall, with stringy hair hanging from his floppy brown cowboy hat; he blinked behind round John Lennon glasses. The woman was short and pudgy, wearing her black hair in two braids; the other man looked like a weightlifter dressed in a loose, tie-dyed T-shirt.
The tall man waved and gave a goofy grin. “Hey, what’s happening?” he called as Paige opened the van door. He shrugged off his backpack and peered up at the van through his dusty round glasses.
Paige gestured for PK Dirks to remain seated. Her shoes crunched in the sand as the desert heat hit her full force. “May I ask what you’re doing out here? This is a restricted area.”
“Told you we should have stayed away from the roads,” the pudgy woman said.
“I’m Doog, and this is Tina and Geoff,” the tall man said with a grin. “We didn’t expect to see anybody this far out past the gates.”
“Neither did we,” said Paige dryly. “Are you aware that unauthorized access here is a Federal offense.”
Tina and Geoff exchanged nervous glances; Doog just shrugged and gave his goofy grin. “We weren’t going to steal anything. The Cold War is over, and you guys aren’t setting off any nukes anymore — so what do you have to hide?” He waited with childlike anticipation for her answer.
Paige shook her head, trying not to get irritated. “That’s not the point, Mr., uh, Doog. No Trespassing means No Trespassing.”
Doog looked at his two companions, who both shrugged in surrender. “We’re just taking a shortcut up to Groom Lake. We figured it might be easier to get through the fence this way. No chance of getting through on the Route 375 side. Extraterrestrial Highway.”
“Yeah,” said Tina, her eyes dark and intense. “You know, Dreamland.”
Doog said, “Groom Lake, Area 51 — that super-secret Air Force base inside Nellis where the government is hiding a bunch of aliens in one of their hangars. They won’t let the public know about it because they’re holding negotiations so Earth can be accepted into the galactic union.”
Paige lifted an eyebrow. “Aliens?”
Geoff nodded, finally speaking, His voice was surprisingly high pitched for his burly body. “We’re sneaking in to get a look for ourselves, find enlightenment, and channel our energy to the stars.”
Dirks leaned out the window. “Site Security is on the way, ma’am.”
“Who are these people?” General Ursov glared out the open window of the van. “Why the delay? Is this another breach in security?”
Paige sighed. This was going to be one long day.
CHAPTER 7
After NTS security troops had taken the UFO-hunting trespassers, Paige drove the government van to a line of rocky, brush-covered hills where explosives storage bunkers dotted the gullies and ridgetops.
They passed through a checkpoint where a security officer in sand camouflage fatigues inspected underneath the vehicle using mirrors and a flashlight. Paige couldn’t tell if the guard was suspicious of the Russians per se, or if his job was just to be skeptical of everyone driving past his station.
Warmed up to his role as tourguide, PK Dirks chatted breezily, trying to make the Russians relax. Ursov looked dourly out the van windows, as if filing away details of the emplacements, the bunkers, everything he saw.
Dirks pointed up the road. “Take the gravel road just before the curve, ma’am,” he said. “Go to bunker 87-3 — I know the door lock combination.”
She pulled up in front of a thick-walled, windowless concrete bunker set into a steep hillside. The bunker had water-stained walls and a heavy metal door. The coded lock consisted of a round ring of numbered buttons. Paige hung back as Dirks punched four buttons in sequence, then tugged on the handle. One of the Russians helped him haul the heavy steel hatch open.