Prologue
Wednesday, 1 June, 1900 local
Alpha Base: an auxiliary base located five miles due west of Wendover Air Force Base, Nevada
Dusk, and 102 degrees in the shade.
As the sun set behind craggy mountains, the clouds ignited in a candy cotton pink. Inside of an hour the dry desert air would plummet thirty degrees. A chill would set in, washing across the crater, driving cold-blooded reptiles to their lairs.
A set of four razor-wire fences, spaced twenty yards apart, ran behind the Ford Bronco. Airman First Class George Britnell sat in the truck, just inside the fourth fence. Separated by meticulously cleared sand, the fences symbolized all that Britnell hated about the Air Force: strict, confining, and mindless. Every fifty feet on the fences blue-bordered white signs screamed in red lettering:
WARNING! This installation is
OFF LIMITS
to all personnel!
Use of deadly force authorized
by order of the Installation Commander
The warning was repeated in Spanish.
Britnell drew in a lungful of smoke. Another minute and daylight would be gone. The infrared detectors embedded along the fence would then be able to detect even the innocuous glow from his cigarette.
The day shift was almost too easy. If he wanted to screw off, it was a simple matter of driving out here to the opposite side of Alpha Base, away from the gates and people. No one was stupid enough to approach the complex during the day. With the signs and warnings, you would have to be blind to come near. Even the animals had a sixth sense about the inside fence. You didn’t have to read to tell that the faint hum and smell of ozone yammered 120,000 volts of electricity.
Airman First Class Lucius Clayborn, Britnell’s partner, threw a glance at Britnell. “You about done, man?”
Britnell took a final hit. He stepped from the Bronco and ground the cigarette with his heel. “Yeah.” He pulled himself up and slammed the door.
The truck lurched off and found pavement. They headed around the meteor crater that held Alpha Base, following the fences.
Britnell unrolled his window. The smell of sage washed in, mixing with the sparse juniper and pinon pine covering the backside of the crater.
Below the crater’s lip concrete bunkers dotted the depression. Twenty feet wide and twelve feet high, the bunkers were set into the side of the half-mile-deep cavity. Searchlights squatted on top of each bunker, their glass covered by levered metal shutters. Yellow warning signs adorned the bunkers. The red international symbol for radioactive material was stenciled on each sign.
Row after row, clustered in groups of three and four, the bunkers covered the five-mile-diameter basin. Britnell had once counted over three hundred bunkers before stopping.
Wendover AFB was to the east; Britnell could make out the shimmer of runway lights on the main base.
Clayborn pulled the Bronco off the road. White dust swirled around them. “It’s been a while since we checked in. Do you want to make contact?”
“Yeah, I’ll make the call.” Britnell fumbled for the microphone. “Apple One, this is Busyfly validating our position. Our location is”—Britnell squinted at the marker set by the road—”Foxtrot Two Zero—I repeat, Foxtrot Two Zero.”
A moment passed. “I copy, Busyfly. Disengage your IFF now.”
Britnell reached under the radio and toggled the Identification Friend or Foe system, turning the device off, then back on. Originally developed so that Air Force fighters could distinguish between friendly and enemy planes, this sixth-generation IFF sent out a coded signal that directed the radar to ignore its presence; when the IFF was turned on, the radar and warning systems on Alpha Base would electronically mask the jeep’s presence from detection.
“I copy your position, Busyfly.”
“Roger that.” Britnell clicked off the mike and grinned. They continued around Alpha Base—
The truck lit up in a fireball of light and sirens. Searchlights punched through the dusk, bathing the crater and fences with streams of light. Sirens shrieked in the distance, running up and down the scale.
“What the hell!”
The radio squawked. Clayborn slapped down the gain, nearly ripping the set from its metal mooring.
“Trespass alert, trespass alert. All patrols converge on station Foxtrot Two One. I say again, converge on station Foxtrot Two One.”
Clayborn looked around frantically. “That’s right on top of us!”
“Where?” Britnell turned white. He brought his M-16 up and clutched the rifle with trembling hands. “Oh man, oh man—where is it? Where is it?” His stomach tightened.
“It’s right behind us.”
Clayborn revved the engine and popped the truck into reverse. They spun, kicking up sand, and tore back toward the last marker. The marker loomed up, visible in their headlights. “Okay, you son of a bitch. Where are you? Come on.”
Three trucks screeched to a halt twenty yards away. They directed their headlights out toward the fences.
Britnell stuck his head out the truck. “I see something moving!” He pushed his rifle through the window.
“No, wait.” Clayborn jerked Britnell’s hand away from the trigger. “Look.” He pointed in front of them.
A white bob moved randomly along the fences, attempting to keep out of the searchlights. Two long ears and a brown body darted in and out of view. Britnell dropped his rifle in his lap.
“A jackrabbit.” Britnell sagged in his seat. “I thought they had gotten rid of all the false alarms. Half a billion dollars for a first class, one-of-a-kind security system, and it screws up. Animals aren’t suppose to trigger it.”
“Obviously not. Now aren’t you glad I didn’t let you shoot? Think what would have happen—”
“I know,” interrupted Britnell. “Setting off a weapon on Alpha Base is grounds for having my nuts cut off.”
“Unless you kill the poor bastard trying to get in. But jackrabbits don’t count. You owe me one.”
Clayborn keyed the mike and reported. “Apple One, this is Busyfly. The boogie was a rabbit; I say again, the intruder was a rabbit. Request permission to leave the hot zone and proceed with patrolling farside. We’ve had enough excitement for a while.”
The reply came back almost instantly. “Roger that, Busyfly. And thanks for the fast response. Sarge says you’re due to patrol outside the fence next shift for getting there first. That, and you’ve got yourself a pass for tomorrow night.”
“Busyfly copies, and thanks.”
Clayborn held out a palm. Britnell slapped it and grinned. “Let’s blast off—it’s party time! Tomorrow night, Shotgun Annie’s, here I come!”