He’d nearly walked away from the books she’d loaned him. He retrieved them, said, “Thanks again.” His mind went blank, his feet refusing to move until Nataly took his arm and escorted him to the door. She waved goodbye, and disappeared from view.
Eric drove back to his office, feeling the giddiness of a juvenile anticipating his first date, and seeing nothing strange about it at all. The euphoria lasted all day and through the evening. By bedtime he was feeling a bit silly about it, and managed to go over his report one final time.
It was likely a mistake to do that, because his sleep was restless all night. He had dreams of Leon shouting at him, and Davis pointing a pistol at him and accusing him of being a spy. Towards morning, Nataly appeared in a vivid dream that woke him up. He remembered sitting up in bed. The lights were low, and dark shadows were moving around the room, circling him, and then the door burst open and Nataly was standing there like an angry angel, shouting, “Get out! All of you get out of this room right now!” And the shadows fled.
When he was awake, sweating, he was certain he could smell her musky scent in the room.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PLANE
Davis seemed resigned to the Pentagon’s decision, but was clearly disgusted by it. “This is what happens when desk jockeys micromanage field operations. Only good I can see is our saboteur might lie low for a while. I’ll be keeping a record of every place you go, every person you talk to, and when. One slip of the tongue from you, anyone hears something they’re not supposed to and you’re out of here, I guarantee it.”
“Understood,” said Eric, and pushed a folder across Davis’ desk. “There’s my report, such as it is. Now I want to see the plane.”
“Sergeant!” said Davis loudly. The door opened, and an MP was standing there in fatigues with beret and sidearm. Short, but solidly built, the man had strangely colored eyes, a kind of blue-green.
“Take Mister Price to Area Five. I’ll call to have Johnson meet you there. Do not leave this man’s side, and use the journal forms I gave you.”
“Yes, sir. This way, Mister Price.”
Davis was opening Eric’s report file and said nothing as they left his office.
“Sergeant Nutt, sir. I’ll accompany you wherever you go, and arrange your schedule here. Please don’t ever go off on your own; I don’t want to be a private again. It’s for your own safety, sir.”
“You have a first name, sergeant?”
“Alan, sir.”
“I’m Eric. I forget the sergeant, and you forget the sir. I’m a civilian.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eric laughed, stuck out a hand, and Alan shook it. “The Man is a stickler for protocol, sir. Got to follow it. You ever in the military?”
“Rangers. That was a long time ago. I was younger than you.”
“Get a chance to kill bad guys?”
“Yes, I did. That’s all I can say about it, Alan.”
“Understood, sir. A van has been assigned to us. Look for number three stenciled on the rear door. It’s waiting.”
They took the elevator down to the lot where Eric had first come in. The van was there, with a driver. Eric and Alan got in, sitting behind an MP with his M16 mounted vertically on the dashboard. As soon as the door closed, the van jerked ahead, moving deeper into the base than Eric had been before.
“It’s just a few minutes,” said Alan. Eric looked over the front seat, saw the speedometer hit forty and hold there. “How big is this base?” he asked.
“There are really eight bases in one, sir, all connected by tunnels like this one. The entire complex runs seven hundred miles north to south, spreads out as much as sixty east and west.” Alan took out his clipboard, and wrote something down on it.
“Are you going to write down every question I ask? Use a tape recorder.”
Alan grinned, took something the size of a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, and held it up for inspection. “Got it, sir.”
Eric grinned back. “Are you going to tell me where your camera is?”
Alan pointed to a point at the center of his beret, above his forehead. “Video, Israeli-made. State-of-the-Art, sir,”
“Good. I feel much safer, now.”
The trip took exactly four minutes. Another parking area in a broad recess carved out of solid red rock, and a floor of black, metal gratings. Light panels in a high ceiling were blinding to look at. No elevator, this time. Two soldiers in a booth guarded a single set of double doors in a rock wall. Alan led him to the booth, and the van pulled away again. Alan presented a paper with a photograph of Eric on it. There was a badge, overprinted with the number five in red, and Eric clipped it to his breast pocket. Another guard opened the door for them, and Eric followed Alan inside.
Another tunnel, no side doors. Video cameras were mounted high on the walls, and turned to follow them. Fifty yards away was another set of double doors. One door opened, and a tall man in a white, laboratory coat stepped inside to greet them when they were halfway there. Tousled hair, hawkish face, he held out a hand to Eric as they approached.
“Neal Johnson, Doctor Price. I’ll be you guide here.”
They shook hands. “Eric, please. I haven’t been called Doctor in a lot of years.”
“Neither have I,” said Neal. “Physics and Computer Science, right?”
“Yes.”
“Aeronautical Engineering, Purdue. You were at Berkeley, I see.”
“That’s right. Hyperfragments and resonances, it’s all ancient history. Computer Science came later.”
“Maybe if you stick around you can help us figure out what our aircraft can really do. We’re supposed to be getting the book on it pretty soon. Our so-called ‘friends’ have finally agreed to release it. I’ve been working blind for over a year. Have you been briefed at all?”
“A short report with drawings, and a lot of tabled laboratory test data. Not very useful.”
“Well, let’s get started.” Neal turned, opened the door, and they followed him inside. The light there was dimmer than in the tunnel, but not by much.
It was an aircraft hanger, immense, the ceiling a hundred yards above them, the floor at least that distance across. Three black helicopters were there: two stealth craft with missile pods and Vulcan canon, the third much larger, a flying boxcar for transportation. Otherwise the floor was empty, Neal and his guests the only people there. They walked towards the opposite wall where there were two elevated levels fronted by clear glass, behind which people were moving. To their right was a massive door of corrugated metal twenty yards on a side, and closed. Left was a fenced-in area with metal-turning machinery that hummed loudly, and what appeared to be a parts storage space. The floor was first rock, then metal as they walked across it. Eric looked down at the boundary of metal. Neal saw it, and said; “Floor center rises on jacks all the way to the ceiling. We can take any aircraft in or out that way.”
They walked some more, and the floor was rock again. People were watching them through the windows. Neal waved to them. “Some of our technical staff,” he said. “They’re curious about you. A stranger’s face stands out pretty fast here.”
There was another door beneath the windows. Neal paused before opening it. “Time to see the Pregnant Sparrow; that’s what we call it. See what you think.” Air rushed into their faces when he opened the door.
Beyond was another hanger, but smaller, and the light was dim. In the center of the floor sat a low-slung aircraft with a strange shape remindful of stealth technology: black, faceted surface, a dull, mottled finish and lots of angles, delta-shaped. No windows, ports, no sign of a cockpit, any markings or insignia on tail or fuselage. They walked around it two times, coming in close. Two standard looking exhaust pipes protruded from a thick section aft which then tapered to a sharp point like a spear.