“If this is what you believe, why are you on this flight?”
He shrugged. “Eventually, you come to realize it’s inevitable. What’s about to happen can’t be stopped.”
Philips stepped from the jet into withering humidity and a merciless prairie sun. She looked across a stretch of sun-bleached tarmac—fear turning her feet to lead.
Two dozen heavily armed soldiers in MTV body armor patterned in universal camouflage, Kevlar helmets, and ballistic goggles stood in ranks, cradling M4A1 rifles with full SOPMOD hardware. They just stared, face-forward, without acknowledging her existence.
Philips walked toward the reception committee.
At first she couldn’t tell what division or corps the soldiers belonged to, but as she came within thirty feet she could make out a nondescript logo above their breast pockets—where an American GI’s last name would normally go. It read simply: “KMSI.” She knew it well; Korr Military Solutions, Inc.—the private military arm of its parent, Korr Security International.
She glanced around the airfield. A modern control tower with a rotating radar dish stood above an American flag drooping lazily in the torpid heat. Beyond stood hangars and row after row of gleaming aircraft—Bombardiers, Gulfstream Vs, a mammoth Boeing Business Jet. A couple billion dollars in private aircraft. In the distance, she could see squads of soldiers marching double-time toward distant hangars from the belly of an unmarked C-17 cargo aircraft. Hundreds of soldiers were in her field of view. A corporate army. What the hell was this place?
Suddenly a nearby non-com shouted in a hoarse voice, “Pochodem vchod! Zrýchlené vpred!” and the soldiers responded in unison with a guttural “Hah!” and began to march off double-time.
Philips watched as the troops moved in formation across the tarmac, toward a distant, taxiing transport plane. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do next.
But the soldier’s departure revealed a square-jawed man in a sweat-soaked shirt and a photographer’s vest moving briskly toward her. A KMSI photo ID badge wagged on his lapel as he walked, and he was completely absorbed in flipping through papers in a dispatch case. He finally looked up to reveal mirrored sunglasses and smiled broadly. “Dr. Philips, Clint Boynton, Sky Ranch Services.” He offered his hand.
Philips just glared at him. “What is this place, Boynton?”
He started flipping through folders in the dispatch case again. “I’ve got that here.”
“I don’t think you have to look in there to tell me where we are.”
“An undisclosed location.” He pulled a thick Mylar envelope from the case. It was stamped “Top Secret” in four places. He handed it to her. “The decision to bring you here was made at the highest level.”
“The White House is involved?”
Boynton laughed, then apparently realized Philips was serious.
She took the envelope from him and felt the weight of it. There was a thick report inside. In her experience a document this heavy meant somebody had just spent several hundred million dollars.
Boynton pointed. “I’m told you’ll find answers to your questions in there. There’s a cover letter.”
She sighed and ripped the seal on the envelope, pulling out the contents. There was a thick bound report inside entitled “Project Exorcist,” with an attached letter, addressed to her. It was on Pentagon stationery. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” As she had been told, she was being loaned out to Weyburn Labs—for Operation Exorcist. She maintained a poker face.
“I’ve been instructed to—”
Philips just interrupted him with one upheld hand, then started flipping through the fifty-page bound report at great speed.
“Doctor?”
Philips ignored him and continued flipping pages. In half a minute she’d reached the last page. She looked up again. “Very, very interesting . . .”
Boynton pointed at it in disbelief. “You just read that?”
“Only the useful parts. Some of the estimates are overly optimistic, but still . . .”
Boynton snapped his dispatch case shut. “In any event, you’re now part of the Weyburn Labs team.” He looked at his watch.
“We’ve got a forty-mile drive ahead of us, Doctor, and time is tight.”
“We’re going to this Sky Ranch?”
“You’re already on the ranch, and we won’t be leaving it.” He raised his arm and curled the four fingers of his hand.
Several vehicles emerged from a nearby hangar: a rose-colored Mercedes Maybach limousine followed by a couple of Chevy Sub-urbans with blacked-out windows.
The Maybach rolled to a stop in front of Philips and Boynton. The passenger door bore a family crest, as though it was some Renaissance coach and four horses. The crest was a riot of cattle, rifles, and oil derricks.
She’d seen it once in a library book when she was a child. Great American Families. “The Aubrey coat of arms.”
Boynton smiled. “I’m impressed, Doctor. The Aubreys no longer own an interest in the property, but the holding company still uses their coat of arms as a logo.”
Philips nodded. “They owned the largest contiguous parcel of private land in the United States. 784,393 acres. Larger than the state of Rhode Island.”
Boynton grinned. “If we play Trivial Pursuit, can I be on your team? In all fairness, it’s more like two million—not that anyone would know.” He motioned for her to approach the waiting limousine.
“Why such a large piece of land?”
“Privacy. We’re seventy-five miles from the nearest town. The outer perimeter is ten miles from where you’re standing and ringed with the latest seismic sensors and cameras. The sky is swept by radar, and we’ve got a battalion of crack troops in garrison—including an artillery section. The Daemon would have difficulty sneaking up on us out here.”
Philips nodded.
Soldiers wielding what looked to be metal detection or radio frequency wands emerged from the Suburban and approached Philips. Other soldiers moved to take her luggage.
“What’s this?”
“Necessary, I’m afraid. No outside electronic devices or weapons of any kind are permitted on the ranch. The Daemon is cunning and the secrecy of this operation is vital. Your understanding is greatly appreciated.”
She had left her phone and laptop back in Maryland, but they riffled through her purse and carry-on bag with gusto.
They also started scanning her body.
In moments, they detected her watch and the silver amulet on a chain around her neck. They scanned both closely then nodded to Boynton that they were okay.
A soldier now strapped a small gray plastic bracelet around her wrist. He fastened it into place with a rivet gun and ran tests on it with an electronic device.
Philips looked at it. “You’re strapping a transponder on me?”
A soldier snapped a digital photograph of her.
Boynton held up his hands reassuringly. “RFID tag for tracking purposes. Don’t try to remove it.” He pointed to the one on his own wrist. “It’s your identity while on the ranch. It’ll send an alert if it’s tampered with. Sensors at the entrances to most buildings will go into alarm if you enter without one. Likewise if you enter restricted areas. And alarms are responded to with lethal force. These RFID tags let the troops know that you’re friendly, and we’ve got quite a few snipers out there—so please wear it at all times.”
Boynton opened the door to the first limousine and gestured for Philips to get inside.
She lingered at the open car door. “Why is the airfield so far from the house?”
“The FAA restricted the airspace within a twenty-mile radius of the mansion.”