Waterloo nodded, feigning disinterest. “Oh? How does it work?” He knew the information already from Colonel Felowmate on previous trips, but he listened intently, hoping Terrell would let slip additional details.
“When the IFF box in our vehicle is turned on, it sends a message back to the area security radar and tells the computer to ignore us. Without it, every vehicle on the base would show up on the screen. This way, we detect only unauthorized vehicles.”
As they approached the gate, an MP in sand-colored khakis waved for the sedan to stop. The driver rolled down his window as Terrell returned the guard’s salute. After checking their badges, the guard signaled for the double-wide gate to swing open. The driver pulled into the sally port and waited between fences as another guard inspected under their car using a mirror attached to a long pole. Security cameras recorded every move.
Waterloo commented, “Since the DAF wasn’t built for high volume work, I’m glad Groom Lake has the temporary storage responsibilities for the stockpile, not us.”
Terrell frowned sourly. “Yes, aren’t we all.” Over the Air Force’s protests, Congress had selected Groom Lake as a staging point for the nation’s drawdown of nuclear weapons, a place to store the warheads about to be dismantled at the adjoining Nevada Test Site. It remained a sore point for them.
The second gate finally opened. The driver proceeded slowly into the Omega Mountain fortress as Terrell glanced at a typed checklist. “They’re pulling the devices out of bunker 1820 now.”
They followed a blacktop road around the nearest foothill, passing two storage bunkers before finally stopping at 1820. A red light in a metal cage gleamed from the top of each bunker; three-pronged yellow and magenta radiation signs prominently marked the front.
The size of the convoy security impressed Waterloo. Two more guards stood in front of the bunker with M-16s at their hips. Behind them nine white drums had been lashed to a flatbed truck while workers hoisted a tenth on top. To the right sat a Bronco bristling with communication antennas. Two Armored Personnel Carriers stood waiting to escort the flatbed.
Terrell open his door. “Ready, Mr. Waterloo?” Hot, dry air rolled in from the desert.
Grabbing his black satchel, Waterloo followed Terrell to the flatbed. The guard acknowledged them, but did not salute, keeping a wary eye on the two newcomers, as if he did not trust his own commanding officer.
Waterloo glanced into the fortified storage bunker. Yellow lines painted on the concrete floor led deep inside the facility, displaying a transport path to the individual weapons vaults. Follow the yellow brick road, he thought. Maybe it leads to Dreamland.…
A tech sergeant wearing a sidearm jogged up to them. He saluted. “Howdy, Colonel. Everything’s on schedule, sir.”
Terrell flipped through a sheaf of papers on a clipboard. “You’ve cleared the devices to transfer to DOE?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
The sergeant pulled over a small footstool. “Watch your step climbing up.” He helped them onto the hot metal top of the flatbed.
Waterloo fumbled in his black satchel, removing the barcode reader, which he plugged into the hand-held computer crammed with inventory information. He ran the barcode reader over the top of the first white drum on the truck. Checking the readout, he saw three lines of information appear, listing the previous storage facility, the date assembled, and a short history of maintenance checks performed.
“Ah, a Livermore weapon,” he mused. “I probably worked with several of the people who designed this warhead.”
Terrell glanced at his watch. “Your plane should be arriving soon, sir — the convoy does have a schedule to keep.”
“Right.” Waterloo turned to the computer display. “I’ll read off the inventory data, and you check it off before you sign each device over to me.”
Terrell smoothed his paper on the clipboard as if that were the most obvious fact in the world. “You may ride in the cab on the way to the plane, if you wish to maintain uninterrupted visual surveillance.”
“No need,” he said. “With all these signatures and all this paperwork, how could anyone accidentally lose track of a warhead?” But deep inside, Waterloo wondered if they truly believed in the infallibility of their security.
It took half an hour for the toiling convoy to make the drive back to the isolated runway and the newly arrived C-17 transport plane. On the way back, Waterloo radioed ahead to the DAF to have Sally Montry finalize the escort vehicles waiting at the receiving air strip in NTS.
As they approached, the sedan skirted the group of mysterious hangars by a wide margin. Waterloo realized he’d been placed behind the driver’s seat, which kept Terrell between him and a good view of the hangars. Intentionally?
Waterloo leaned toward Terrell, still unable to get a good view. “We saw one of your stealth bombers flying over the NTS a few hours ago. Cruising quite low — everyone was impressed, including the Russian inspectors.”
“We’re still doing a lot of testing,” Terrell said curtly.
“Out here at Groom Lake? I’ve heard rumors about your Dreamland facility, Colonel. Any chance of getting a tour?”
Terrell flashed a sharp glance over at him. “That request is out of line, sir. Your security clearance does not transfer to our other work here at Groom Lake. Our responsibility for storing nuclear devices is temporary and definitely not our primary mission. Beyond that, I am not familiar with the facility you mentioned.”
Waterloo didn’t pursue the matter further. But the brush-off made him all the more uneasy.
CHAPTER 18
After a cafeteria lunch, Craig was anxious to return to the DAF to begin going over the mounds of paperwork Nevsky had left behind. Time was wasting, and he had gathered about as much background as he considered useful. But he had to accompany the Russian inspectors as they were shown the NTS down-hole testing activities.
The van trundled along a dirt road on Yucca Flat where hundreds of nuclear tests had taken place underground. Craig could see the dimpled ground, weirdly symmetric circular depressions laid out like a bizarre gardening plot.
“Moon craters,” said Nikolai Bisovka, an amateur astronomer and stargazer back in Russia. He fumbled with his pack of Marlboros, sucking on an unlit cigarette, since Paige wouldn’t allow him to smoke in the van.
“Subsidence craters,” Ursov corrected. “Is that how you say in English?”
“Yes, General.” Paige said as the van jounced toward a white tower standing like a sentinel surrounded by trailers and construction cranes. “The explosion forms a subterranean cavity, but the roof collapses, resulting in a subsidence crater at the surface.” She swerved around a pothole. “But all the radioactivity is contained underground, not released to the atmosphere.”
Craig adjusted his sunglasses and stared, shifting about to keep comfortable on the van’s seat. He felt impatient, eager to be up and making some headway. He glanced at his watch.
“We’re going to meet one of our old-timers,” Paige said. “Jerome Kostas has worked on underground tests since the 1960s. He even participated in some of the Pacific Island detonations as a young sailor — the Sawtooth Test on Enika Atoll and Castle Bravo on Bikini.” She parked the van near the pickup trucks and trailers surrounding the white tower. “I’ll bet old Jerome remembers watching most of these craters being made.”