Simmons hadn’t been too surprised to find Franklin a young bearded man who looked more like he ought to be doing poetry reading at a college than leading people to look at a classified government facility. Franklin worked out of a small, dilapidated house where he self-published a monthly newsletter for UFO enthusiasts. He’d been thrilled when he’d seen Simmons’s credentials and publishing history. At last someone with a little bit of credibility and pull, had been the way Franklin had put it, and he’d promised to put Simmons as close to Area 51, the code name for the Groom Lake complex, as he possibly could.
Simmons wondered if Franklin might not be the “Captain” who had sent him the tape and letter, but he didn’t think so. There didn’t seem to be any need for the subterfuge, and Franklin had seemed genuinely surprised to see him. They’d passed the “mailbox” farther back on the dirt road about twenty minutes ago and there had been two cars and a van parked there. UFO watchers had waved at the Bronco as they drove by. The mailbox, which was an actual small battered metal mailbox on the side of the road, was the last safe place to observe the sky over the Groom Lake/Area 51 complex. To Johnny it was obvious that the watchers there weren’t surprised to see Franklin’s truck drive by.
Franklin threw the truck in gear and rolled forward about a hundred feet. “The sensors pick up ground vibes from passing vehicles, but they don’t trip on people walking or animals. Then they transmit that information back to whoever is in charge of security for this place. Without the antennas they can’t transmit. We’re out of range now. Back in a second.” He stepped out and was gone for several more minutes as he screwed the antennas back into the sensors.
They went another two miles down the road, then Franklin pulled off into the lee of a large ridge that rose up to the west like a solid, sloping black walclass="underline" White Sides Mountain. Simmons stepped out, following Franklin’s lead.
“It’s going to get colder,” Franklin said in a low voice as he pulled a small backpack out of the rear of his truck.
Simmons was glad he had packed the extra sweater. He pulled it over his head, then put his jacket back on over it.
It had been reasonably warm in Rachel, but with the departure of the sun, the temperature had plummeted.
They both turned as they heard a low roar coming in from the eastern horizon. The sound grew louder, then Franklin pointed. “There. See the running lights?” He snorted. “Some of the people who camp out at the mailbox mistake aircraft running lights for UFOs. When a plane’s in its final flight path the lights seem to just hover, especially since it comes in almost straight over the mailbox.”
“Is that the 737 you told me about?” Simmons asked. Franklin giggled nervously. “No, that’s not her.” The airplane banked over their heads and disappeared over White Sides Mountain, descending for a landing on the other side. A second one, just like the first, came by less than thirty seconds later. “Those are Air Force transports. Medium-sized ones, probably C-130 Hercules. You can hear the turboprop engines. Must be bringing in something. They haul in pretty much all their equipment and supplies to Area 51 by plane.”
They heard the abrupt increase in the whine of engines and the sound lasted for a few minutes, then silence reigned again.
He held out his hand. “Camera.”
Simmons hesitated. The Minolta with long-range lens hanging around his neck was as much a part of his clothing as the sweater.
“We agreed,” Franklin said. “A whole lot less hassle all around if the sheriff shows. You saw the negatives and prints back at the office that I’ve already taken of the complex. They were taken in daylight, too, with a better camera than you have. Much better than you could get at night even with special film and long exposure.”
Simmons removed the camera, the loss of the weight around his neck an irritant. He also didn’t like the idea of having to pay Franklin for photos he could take himself. Plus what if they spotted something happening? He had noted Franklin stuffing a camera into his backpack when they were leaving earlier in the day. Simmons understood Franklin’s scam: he wanted exclusive footage if anything happened and he wanted to make extra money selling his own photos. Simmons handed his camera to the younger man, who locked it in the back of the truck. Franklin grinned, his teeth reflecting the bright moon hanging overhead. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Simmons acknowledged.
“Let’s do it.” Franklin took a few deep breaths, then headed for a cut in the steep mountainside and began striding up. Simmons followed, his boots making a surprisingly loud clatter in the darkness as he scrambled up the loose rock.
“Think we were spotted?” Simmons asked.
Franklin shrugged, the gesture lost in the dark. “Well, we know the sensors didn’t pick us up. If there was a camo dude out there in the dark and he saw my truck going down the road, then the sheriff will be here in about a half hour. We’ll see the lights from above. The camo dudes, who are the outer perimeter security people for the complex, will drive by on this side of the ridge, maybe even come up prior to showtime if they saw we had cameras, another good reason not to bring them. The fact we haven’t seen anyone yet means there’s a good chance we weren’t spotted. If we weren’t spotted, then we can spend the whole night up top without getting hassled.”
“Doesn’t the Air Force get pissed at you for messing with their equipment?” Simmons asked as Franklin led the way.
“Don’t know.” Franklin giggled again, the sound irritating Simmons. “I imagine they would if they knew it was me. But they don’t, so screw ’em. We’re still on public land and will be the whole way,” Franklin explained, slowing a bit when he recognized his paying guest’s more modest pace. “But if the sheriff comes here, he’ll confiscate the film anyway, so it’s easier to simply not haul the weight up. Plus, we got us sort of a gentleman’s agreement. This is the only spot left in the public domain that you can see the runway from since the Air Force purchased most of the northeast section last year. Most people stay back at the mailbox because they don’t want to get hassled, but we aren’t doing anything illegal by climbing this mountain.
“But soon it won’t be legal to come here,” Franklin continued. “The Air Force is trying to get this land too. Once they get it you won’t be able to see into the lake bed from anywhere in the public domain. And you sure as hell can’t overfly this place.
“Earlier this year they seized a bunch of the land over that way”—Franklin pointed to the north—“from the Bureau of Land Management, which had control of it. I used to watch from there occasionally.”
Franklin gave Simmons a hand as they made it over the lip of the cut onto the side of the ridge proper. “They wanted it all, but the law says that over a certain acreage, there have to be hearings, so the Air Force seized up to their limit the last couple of years and they’ll probably do it again this year, until they get all they want, piece by piece.”
Simmons would have liked to ask a few more questions but he was too winded to do anything but grunt.
“We have another eight hundred feet of altitude to make,” Franklin said.