Moments after shutdown, after the entry hatch was motored open, Patrick called out, “Just shut off the battery and leave everything. Step on out.” Seaver, Warren, and Long did as he said. They were surprised to see a young black officer in desert camouflage with a flashlight, a submachine gun attached to a harness on his chest, and a big.45-caliber automatic pistol holster on his hip, standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder waiting for them to come down. “Afternoon, sir,” he said, flashing them a smile. “Welcome to Elliott.”
The high-powered air-conditioning system inside the hangar was already working to pull the last bit of exhaust and heat from the structure. Security guards were searching McLanahan, and they quickly set to work searching Furness, Seaver, and the others. The guards then asked them to take an arm out of their flight suit sleeves and uncover a shoulder. Using a pneumatic hypodermic, the black security officer shot something into their shoulders, then clipped vinyl-covered bracelets onto their wrists. “What the hell are you doing?” Furness asked. “Is that an anthrax vaccine or something?”
“Wiring you folks for sound,” said the officer cheerfully. “Welcome to the club.”
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, my security chief,” Patrick said. “Hal, meet…”
“Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness, Nevada Air National Guard. Nice to meet you.” Briggs shook hands with Furness, then introduced himself to Dewey and Seaver. Furness studied the gun he wore on his chest harness. It was an MP5K, or “Kurz” (short) model, a very small, close-range submachine gun, so small that it was originally intended to replace an aviator’s personal survival weapon. The submachine gun, with one 15-round magazine already locked in place, was attached to the harness with a quick-release strap, which kept it ready for action while keeping the hands free. Parachute cord connected the folding stock with the harness, so as soon as Briggs drew and elevated the gun to firing position, the stock would unfold and he’d be ready to fire. “I know all of you — probably in disgusting detail.”
“Hal was in charge of the security evaluation at the 111th,” Patrick explained. “He likes doing his homework. Explain what the microtransceivers do, Hal.”
“You’ve just been injected with a subcutaneous microtransceiver, and those wristbands are the power source and antenna,” Briggs explained. “The devices do a number of things. Basically, they’re like a dog’s electronic ID tag. The microchip has coded information on you. The bracelet is the power source and transceiver — the microchip is inert without it. We can monitor your location, track you, talk with you, give you directions, monitor body functions, and a number of other things.”
“Who the hell said I wanted you to shoot a microchip into my arm?” Furness asked.
“You did—‘Commander,’” Patrick said. “I told you the level of intrusion into your life here is intense, and you didn’t believe me. Well, now your body and your men’s bodies are wired for sound, and someone will be listening and monitoring you — for the rest of your lives.” He glanced at Rinc Seaver and added, “Think about that the next time you’re alone with someone special. Big Brother is not just watching — he’s listening and tracking you too.”
Seaver smiled. “Cool,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. He couldn’t see or feel the microchip.
Furness looked ready to explode. “You’re shitting me!”
“Attention in the area!” someone called out. The guards remained at port arms, but everyone else snapped to attention.
“As you were,” another voice boomed. Furness turned and saw an immense black three-star general in a flight suit, garrison cap, and spit-shined flying boots stride over to the group. McLanahan and Briggs saluted as he walked over to them. “Nice to have you back, General,” he said to McLanahan. “It should make it a little easier to keep you under some kind of restraint, I hope.”
“Nice to be home, sir,” Patrick said with a sly smile. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Fur-ness, commander of the 111th Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard. Colonel Furness, this is Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake.”
Samson returned Furness’s salute, then they shook hands. “I hear good things about you, Colonel,” Samson said cheerfully. “I look forward to seeing some good stuff from you. Welcome.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Samson was introduced to Rinc Seaver. “Major,” Samson said coolly. Seaver tried to match him stare for stare, but quickly wilted under the sheer physical presence of the big man.
Samson turned his attention back to McLanahan, for which Seaver was grateful. “Patrick, I know I signed off on the concept, but I didn’t expect you to hijack four Nevada Air National Guard B-1 bombers and their crews,” Samson said. “We’ve got some phone calls to make. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to leave you all in the hands of Colonel Briggs, who will escort you to your quarters. But I have a few things to say first:
“I know General McLanahan has probably told you this already, but I’m going to reiterate it for you: you are now part of our nation’s most top-secret weapons research facility. What you do here will decide the shape of the United States Air Force and the American military for the next twenty to fifty years. Our team members here understand and respect the awesome responsibility we place upon them, and they protect the technology and information here as closely as their own lives.
“Nonetheless, we don’t rely on that — if we want to keep an eye on you, we do it, however and whenever we want. That’s the price you pay for agreeing to be part of what goes on in this place. You will find your work here enjoyable and stimulating — many say eye-popping.
“However,” and he paused and looked them all in the eye before continuing, “you will find your life here sucks. If you thought the worst assignment in the Air Force was in the Aleutians or Greenland, think again. And if you thought you’ve already encountered the worst, most hard-assed commander to work for, think again. I am that man.”
Samson walked up to Rinc Seaver and looked him straight in the eye as he addressed them all. “I’ve received reports about this unit, about your activities in and out of the cockpit, about your performance — and about your attitude,” he said in a cavern-deep voice. “You’re supposed to be the best of the best. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Your past successes don’t matter anymore. This base is filled with the best of the best, the top one-half of one percent of this nation’s engineers, scientists, technicians, and aviators. We fly jets and operate weapon systems that will make history in future conflicts. You’ll have a chance to prove yourselves, I guarantee that. But I don’t let anyone come near my new weapon systems unless they prove to me that they can work as a team. Your trial starts now. Questions?”
“I have one request, General,” Rinc Seaver said.
“Major?”
“We’re going to need a hand receipt for those planes, sir,” Rinc said.
Samson’s eyes flashed in anger — but then he smiled, an evil crocodile smile. “Sure, Major,” he said. “Got a pencil?” Before Furness could react, Samson grabbed Seaver by the left shoulder of his flight suit, grasped the left sleeve near the pencil pocket, and ripped the sleeve clean off in one quick, fluid motion, making it look as effortless as tearing a sheet of paper. Rinc did not react; it was as if he had expected the big man to do it.
Samson reached down to the shards of Nomex and retrieved a black grease pencil. “I guess this will have to do,” he said. “Now I need something to write on.” He grabbed the top of Seaver’s flight suit and ripped it open with a quick snap. Pieces of zipper and fire-retardant fabric went flying in all directions. On Seaver’s white T-shirt, he wrote, “Four (4) each B-1B Lancer bombers,” then signed his name and dated it. Rinc stood at attention, eyes caged, fixed straight ahead the entire time.