The break lasted just five minutes. Then it was time to climb the mountain. Up they went, over rocks, through crevices, and across precipices that seemed about a mile wide by the time Hunter got to them. This exercise took nearly two hours, but finally they reached the top. On the other side, a vast desert wasteland stretched out before them for miles. It was not empty, however. Far off in the distance, perhaps a dozen miles away, they could see a collection of innocuous white buildings with a gigantic runway next to them. The brutal heat nearly covered these buildings in an impenetrable haze. Nevertheless, they seemed oddly familiar to Hunter, not just in his present life, but in his former one as well.
This place… what is it called again?
They started down the other side of the mountain, and here he found his answer on a sign attached to a ten-foot-high chain-link fence. The sign read: This Is a Restricted Area. Deadly Force Is Authorized… Groom Lake Military Reservation.
Groom Lake? Hunter thought. Again, very familiar.
Neither the sign's warning nor the fence itself fazed the Spetsnaz soldiers. They fastened a small boxlike device to the chain-link and attached two wires to a handheld battery. If the fence was electrified, or more likely, wired with motion detectors, then this doodad would prevent those who might be monitoring it from detecting them.
Once attached, the men simply cut one strand out of the fence next to the device, and one by one, scrambled through.
They walked for another three hours, passing through the most brutal heat of the day.
Reaching the perimeter of the base, they skirted the edge of the massive runway, hitting the deck several times to avoid detection from aircraft flying overhead. Finally they climbed the small mountain west of the hidden base. It was from here that they got their best look at the facilities below.
There were perhaps two dozen buildings. White, square, and unimpressive, all together they made up the equivalent of several very small city blocks. There were also a number of larger buildings that were undoubtedly aircraft hangars. Various fuel tanks and support huts made up the rest of the place. They could see very few people moving around down there. Only a madman would be out in this heat, Hunter thought. But these days, he was certain he now qualified.
The squad leader ordered them to take up positions along the top of this mountain. Thank God they were able to stay in one place. The squad leader then pulled out a device that looked like an early version of a GPS locator and overlaid a grid across its readout screen. This overlay was labeled like a map.
Try as he might though, Hunter was unable to catch a glimpse of the overlay's name.
So the mystery of just where he was continued.
They lay up there until night began to fall.
Only once the sun had gone down did the base below them come to life. Lights turned on, ground vehicles spotted. Sounds of machinery and engine noise echoing faintly across the desert. Hunter remained still the entire time, it was the only thing to do. His quadtrol was burning a hole in his pocket, but again he resisted the temptation of taking it out.
What did this long, sweaty trek in the desert have to do with finding the Mad Russian? The man he sought certainly wasn't one of these five guys. Even what little he could see through their face masks, he knew none of them fit the grainy image on the back of his ticket. But did they know him? What would happen if Hunter asked — and they didn't? Bad things might result. Or would they? He tried to stifle all these voices in his head. Tried to stop himself from thinking too much.
Wait for your opportunity, his instincts told him. You might be close to something here.
Don't panic.
Bide your time.
See how this scenario plays out.
The noises from below increased as the night arrived in earnest.
They observed strange aircraft being towed out of the hangars and brought into others, test bays where the doors were quickly closed tight behind them. Now the bizarre noises really began, as Hunter imagined these aircraft, which he could see only as shadows, had their propulsion systems run up.
At one point, these noises became so loud, it seemed as if the entire mountain was shaking. Hunter kept his eye on the squad leader this whole time. He was alternately watching his primitive GPS device and another gadget that was sewn into his combat suit but had a small speaker attached by wire to his right ear.
This went on for another hour or so. Finally, the leader held up his hand and got the attention of the rest of the squad. He'd received some sort of information through his earpiece. Suddenly it was time to move.
More hand signals, and the squad was up again. Hunter had no idea what they were about to do. True, he saw no weapons, indeed no guards at all below in the familiar secret base. But he couldn't imagine it being completely undefended^ — at least in the real world, if there was such a thing anymore.
But they did not begin a long climb down the mountain. Instead, they started moving across it. Up and over more rocks, across more crevices, moving quickly yet quietly, trying not to disturb even the smallest pebble. They were soon at a position northwest of the center of the base and looking right down on the test hangars.
Despite his precarious position, Hunter was amazed at the Spetsnaz team's dexterity and stealth capabilities. While his subconscious was still working overtime trying to bring him back a hint of a memory about this place — he knew he'd seen it, maybe even been here before — he was certain that it was a very high security zone and obviously a strictly classified area. Yet, in the midst of this dizzylando anyway, the Russian special forces team had successfully breached its security boundaries, its biggest one being its insanely remote location, and now sat looking down on the place. Strictly on a military scale, it was impressive.
But Hunter's grudging admiration for these Slavic ghosts was actually premature. Because no sooner had they reached this perch overlooking the base, when a land vehicle roared up right behind them.
It was a small black truck of some sort, huge tires and all kinds of body reenforcements that allowed it to climb mountains. It was on them so quickly, Hunter thought they were dead meat. But no one in the squad panicked. They simply laid down their huge weapons and put their hands in the air. Two men stepped out of the vehicle. One was armed with an M-16 rifle, the other with a video camera. A moment of tension passed, then the leader of the infiltration squad started laughing.
"Well, OK, we buy the beer this time!" he yelled to the men now just ten or so feet away. "You caught us… but we got damn close!"
The rest of the squad relaxed. Two guys lit cigarettes. The two men from the vehicle smiled, too, but it was obvious they were still a bit confused. As was Hunter. The squad leader took out a pass and handed it to the two security guards.
"We're Delta Team Six," he said in a very thick drawl. 'Testing the security line… Call us in, will you? And tell our CO what kind of suds you drink."
Hunter stood up finally, took off his silly helmet, and ran his fingers through his very dirty hair. He knew this had been too easy. For them to sneak into such a classified area undetected until now — there had to be a gag. A punch line. And this was it. The Mad Russian was displaying his odd sense of humor once again. This wasn't a real incursion. These weren't real Russians. It was all a big joke. A test. An exercise.