Area 51: The Reply-2 (6 page)

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"I'm Canuck," Turcotte said. They came up to a C-2 cargo plane.

Ridley handed him a parachute. "Packed it myself. What the bloody hell is a Canuck?"

"French-Indian," Turcotte said. "I'm from Maine. There's a lot of us in the backwoods there." He put the chute on his back.

Ridley was behind him, reaching between his legs with a strap. "Left leg," he announced.

"Left leg," Turcotte repeated, snapping it into the proper receiver. He felt comfortable around Ridley's gruff manner. He'd met many men like that in his years working special operations. Turcotte had even worked with the SAS before in Europe, when he'd done counterterrorism work. He knew the Special Air Service to be top-notch professionals who got the job done.

Quickly Turcotte rigged and climbed into the plane. The C-2 was the largest aircraft the Washington had in its inventory. It normally moved personnel and equipment from the vessel to shore and back. Right now the small cargo bay held sixteen heavily armed SAS troopers in tight proximity to each other.

Turcotte smelled the familiar pungent odor of engine exhaust and JP-4 jet fuel, reminding him of other missions in other parts of the globe. The back ramp to the C-2 closed and the plane taxied to its takeoff position. The engine noise peaked and then they were moving, rolling across the steel deck. There was a sudden, short drop, then the nose of the plane tilted up and they were climbing in altitude. Below and behind them, like fireflies in the dark, helicopters lifted and followed.

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"Ten minutes!" the SAS jumpmaster said. The message was picked up by the throat mike wrapped tightly around his neck and transmitted to the earpieces of all the jumpers, Turcotte included.

Turcotte did one last check of his gear, making sure everything was functioning properly. He looked around at the other men in the cargo bay. He was the only one in a single rig. The SAS troopers were wearing dual rigs—two people hooked together in harness with one chute. Turcotte had never seen that used for military purposes before. Usually such rigs were used by civilian jump instructors to train novice jumpers.

The jumpmaster continued, pantomiming the commands with his hands. "Six minutes. Switch to your personal oxygen and break your chem lights."

Turcotte stood up at the front of the cargo bay. He unhooked from the console in the center of the cargo bay that had been supplying his oxygen and hooked in to the small tank on his chest. He took a deep breath and then broke the chem light on the back of his helmet, activating its glow.

"Depressurizing," the crew chief announced.

A crack appeared at the back of the plane as the back ramp began opening. The bottom half leveled out, forming a platform, while the top half disappeared into the tail section. Turcotte swallowed, his ears popping.

"Stand by," the jumpmaster called out over the FM radio. He moved forward until he was at the very edge, looking into the dark night sky.

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Turcotte knew they were over fourteen miles offset from the Terra-Lei compound and should be attracting no interest from ground-based radar at this distance.

"Go!" The jumpmaster and his buddy were gone. The others walked off, the pairs moving in unison. Turcotte went last, throwing himself into the slipstream and immediately spreading his legs and arms and arching his back, getting stable.

He counted to three, then pulled his ripcord. The chute blossomed above his head. He slid the night vision goggles down on his helmet, checked his chute, then looked down. He counted eight sets of chem lights below him. He turned and followed their path as the SAS troopers began flying their chutes toward the target. With over six miles of vertical drop, they could cover quite a bit of distance laterally using their chutes as wings. Turcotte didn't know what the current record was, but he had heard of HAHO teams covering over twenty-five lateral miles on a jump. He felt confident that with the sophisticated guidance rigs the front man of each pair of jumpers had on top of his reserve chute, they would find the target. All Turcotte had to do was follow. And, as Ridley had warned, stay out of the way as the SAS did its job.

Turcotte was cold for the first time in weeks since leaving Easter Island.

Even at this latitude thirty thousand feet meant thin air and low temperatures.

Turcotte's hands were on the toggles that controlled the chute, both turning and descent rate. He adjusted as the line of chem lights below him changed direction slightly. He checked his altimeter: twenty thousand feet.

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Fifty kilometers away the first wave of the air assault element was flying toward the target. Four Task Force 160 AH-6's—known as Little Birds— led the way. They were modified OH-6 Cayuse observation helicopters. The AH-6 was designed as one of the quietest helicopters in the world, capable of hovering a couple of hundred meters from a person and not being heard. The two pilots both wore night vision goggles and used forward-looking infrared radar to fly in the night.

Two Little Birds carried 7.62mm minigun pods and the other two 2.75-inch rocket pods. In the backseat of each aircraft SAS snipers armed with thermal scopes provided additional firepower. The SAS troopers wore body harnesses and could lean completely out of the helicopter to fire their rifles.

Ten kilometers behind the Little Birds, four Apache gunships followed. Besides the 30mm chain gun mounted under the nose, the weapons pylons of each bristled with Hellfire missiles. A Black Hawk helicopter was directly behind the Apaches: Colonel Spearson's command aircraft. And ten kilometers behind the Apaches came Spearson's main ground force: eight Black Hawks carrying ninety-six SAS troopers ready for battle.

At a higher altitude and circling, the air strike force from the George Washington was poised. It consisted of F-4G Wild Weasels to suppress air defense and F-18 Tomcats with laser-guided munitions. And circling high above it all off the coast was the AWACS, coordinating carefully with

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Colonel Spearson to make sure that everything arrived on target at just the right moment.

Next to Colonel Spearson, in the command Black Hawk helicopter, Lisa Duncan felt reasonably calm. She had always handled stress and crisis well, and this was to be no exception.

She'd moved up in Washington for years until getting her last assignment, as presidential science adviser to Majestic-12. The fact that when she had been given the assignment she had only known of that organization as a rumor, had been the very reason the President had picked her. Even he hadn't known exactly what Majestic-12 was, having been briefed when coming into office that MJ-12, as insiders called it, was a committee established after World War II to look into the discovery of various alien artifacts. At the briefing the head of MJ-12, General Gullick, had not told the President exactly what it was they had hidden at Area 51 in Nevada that required over $3 billion a year in black budget funding, other than to hint that they had recovered several types of alien craft, all in nonflying condition.

Unlike his predecessors this President had wanted to know more, and he'd tapped Lisa Duncan to get that information for him when the presidential-scientific-adviser slot had come open upon the death of the man who'd held it for thirty years. The President had listened to those who told him that there were rumors Majestic had more than just nonoperational craft at Area 51 and that he was being kept in the dark. He wanted the truth and Lisa Duncan was the one he had chosen to get it for him.

Receiving the assignment, Duncan had gath-

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ered as much information as she could about MJ-12 and Area 51. One disturbing bit of information she was given by a senator, one of those who had pushed the President, indicated that MJ-12 had employed former Nazi scientists brought to America under the classified auspices of Operation Paperclip after the end of the Second World War.

Sensing that she was going into unfriendly waters, Duncan had intercepted Turcotte a few weeks ago on his way to a security assignment at Area 51 and coopted him to spy for her before she traveled there for the first time.

She had been shocked upon arrival at Area 51 to find out that MJ-12 was flying nine alien-made bouncers; disk-shaped craft that used the Earth's magnetic field to power their engines. And that MJ-12 planned on flying the mothership, a massive craft capable of interstellar flight, hidden in a cavern inside Area 51.

That dangerous plan had dissolved with the help of Turcotte, Kelly Reynolds, Peter Nabinger, and Werner Von Seeckt, one of the original Nazi scientists. Von Seeckt's physical condition had deteriorated shortly after they'd succeeded in stopping General Gullick's attempt to fly the mothership, and he was now in the intensive care unit at the Nellis Air Force Base hospital.

Duncan felt that being in this Black Hawk, flying toward an unknown site in Ethiopia, was simply continuing to do her duty to her country, and to the human race as a whole. If there was something alien out there, she felt it was her job to help find it. There had been too much secrecy for too long all over the world.

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But she wondered how many more people would die. She listened to the pilot of the C-2 report that all jumpers were away, and her thoughts went to Mike Turcotte.

Turcotte understood the tandem rigs now. The man in the rear was flying the chute. The man in front, not having to bother with controlling the toggles for maneuvering, held a silenced MP-5 submachine gun in his hands with a laser scope.

Turcotte checked his altimeter and the glowing numbers told him they were just passing through ten thousand feet. He looked around, now able to make out some details on the ground. There were mountains to both sides, some as high as his present altitude. Turcotte remembered the warning that the compound was in a depression, the deepest in Africa, Zandra had said, and they had to descend twelve hundred feet below sea level.

Turcotte pulled his oxygen mask aside and breathed in the fresh night air. He had a moment now to collect his thoughts, and one thing still bothered him from the briefing: Why had Zandra given so much information about the Rift Valley? It was Turcotte's belief that people never did things for no reason at all. Zandra had to have had a conscious, or perhaps subconscious, reason for going into detail about the geographical formation. There was no doubt, looking about through his night vision goggles, that the terrain of the valley was spectacular. Jagged mountains rose on either side, framing a twisted and torn valley floor.

The formation changed directions, curving to

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the left, and Turcotte brought his mind back to the task at hand, pulling his left toggle and following the stream of glowing chem lights below.

The jump formation broke apart two hundred feet above the roof of the research building. Turcotte knew the guards on the roof had to be awake, but would they be looking up?

There was a brief sparkle to one side and below. One of the SAS troopers was firing. Through his earplug Turcotte could hear the men call in.

"Guardpost one clear."

"Guardpost two clear."

"Team one down."

The first troopers were on the roof and it was clear of opposition without any alarm being sounded. Turcotte let up on his toggles and aimed just off the center of the roof. He could see the SAS men clearing themselves of their parachute rigs.

Turcotte pulled in on his toggles and braked less than three feet up. His feet touched and he immediately unsnapped his harness, stepping out of it even before the chute finished collapsing. He turned, looking about, MP-5 at the ready. He could see several bodies; guards dispatched by the SAS.

"This is Ridley. We're landed and secure," the squad leader's voice announced over the radio.

"Air wing, in now," Colonel Spearson ordered.

The F-4G Wild Weasel was the only remaining version of the venerable F-4

Phantom still in the U.S. inventory. It had one very specific job—kill enemy radar and antiair systems.

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Two Weasels came in on Spearson's orders fast and high out of the east. The radar systems of the Terra-Lei compound picked them up and locked on, which was exactly what was desired. Missiles leapt off the wings of the Weasels—Shrike, AGM-78, and Tacit Rainbows—fancy names for smart bombs that caught the radar beams and rode them down to the emitters.

The pilots of the Weasels banked hard and were already one hundred and eighty degrees turned when the missiles struck. All of the compound's air defense went down in that one strike.

Right behind came the first air assault wave.

The SAS demolition's men had been carefully placing shaped charges on the roof; four different charges, evenly spaced. They had run out their detonating cord and were waiting on the order to fire.

As the sound of helicopters came from the east Colonel Spearson gave the order to Ridley.

"Fire in the hold!"

The charges blew, searing the night with their explosive crack and brief flash. Four holes appeared in the roof, and soldiers jumped down into each one.

Turcotte paused, head cocked to the side. A roar of automatic fire reverberated out of the southwest hole. Turcotte sprinted over. A jagged opening, four feet in diameter, beckoned in the concrete. He looked down. The four SAS men who had gone into the hole lay motionless on the floor.

Turcotte pulled a flash-bang grenade off his

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vest and tossed it in, counted to three, then jumped in, just as the grenade went off, stunning anyone inside. Turcotte was firing even before he hit the ground. He landed on the body of one of the SAS men and fell to his right side.

A string of tracers ripped by, wildly fired just above his prone body.

Turcotte stuck the MP-5 up and blindly returned the fire, spraying in the direction the tracers had come from. He heard the sound of a magazine being changed and was just about to move when he froze. That was too obvious. He rolled onto his stomach and peered about. All the SAS men were dead. There was a desk to his left in the direction the bullets had come from. That was where the man was. Whoever he was, he was using the mirror on the wall behind the desk to aim. Turcotte fired, shattering the glass. Turcotte put a couple of rounds into the desk, confirming what he'd suspected. He wouldn't be able to shoot through it.