Trevor stood, “I’m out of here,” and disappeared over the cliff.
Blinded by the rotor wash, Blake felt his way along the ground and retreated down the rocky slope until the flying debris no longer threatened him.
Trevor hadn’t gone far. Blake found him face down over some rocks. “You okay, Trev?”
“I’ll live.”
Several minutes later, the Black Hawk ascended, returning to the base. A wind battered Desmond stumbled down the slope. “That’s something you can tell your grandchildren about.”
“You knew that was going to happen,” Blake said, his anger apparent.
“I never know what’s going to happen out here, but I come prepared.” He raised the gas mask. “You don’t need to get upset. Soon you’ll be laughing about it.”
“What do we do now?” Trevor asked. “I’m not going through that again.”
“We’ll let them win tonight.”
Blake wasn’t sure what to make of Desmond. He had invited Blake on this trip so they could develop a trust, yet he spent the entire time drinking and acting like a lunatic.
“The night’s not over,” Desmond told them. “We can hike back to the Suburban, then drive out to the highway and watch from there.”
Fifteen minutes after the helicopter returned to the base, Val emerged from a thin crevice eroded into the hillside.
Viewing the base again, he noted a significant change. A squadron of F-16 jets, ten in all, sat at the far end of the runway.
A closer vantage point would’ve been preferred, but the activity concerned Val, and he was not comfortable traversing land he hadn’t charted for surveillance devices. His safety came before the photos or videos he sought. His success in avoiding detection thus far came from patience, moving conservatively, and taking few risks. For now he would hold his position and watch the activity. Then return to one of his bunkers by sunrise.
Safe inside the Suburban, Blake drove his dust riddled companions down Groom Lake Road, followed by a harassing Cherokee with its brights on. Reaching Highway 375 provided a mental relief that was equivalent to sneaking into a neighbor’s yard, retrieving a ball, and making it back across the fence without a dog bite. They were now out of the government’s yard, albeit with a few small tears in their clothes.
Trevor was the first to exit the Surburban after Blake had pulled to a stop alongside the highway and noticed the air show that had commenced while they drove Groom Lake Road. “Look at all the planes in the sky.” Ten jets were circling at different altitudes above the base, almost like they were trapped in a fifteen-mile-wide tornado.
“So they did have a specific reason for wanting us to leave,” Blake said, his interests and hopes renewed at the thought of possibly seeing an anti-gravity craft.
“They’re getting ready to test something,” Desmond said. “Those planes are fighter jets. Their job is to shoot down the test pilot if he decides to make a run for China.”
“Look, above the mountains,” Trevor said pointing.
Four white lights hovered in the northern sky like a classic cigar-shaped UFO.
“Don’t get excited,” Desmond said. “Those are flares.”
“Those aren’t flares,” Trevor argued. “That’s a craft.”
With an I’ve seen it all before demeanor, Desmond replied, “They’re high altitude flares, attached to parachutes. Decoys. Later, if someone reports a strange light in the sky, the Air Force will say they dropped flares during nighttime training.”
Still unconvinced, “If those flares are falling, then why do they appear still?”
“Same reason that helicopter appeared to be hovering above the base when you first saw it. It’s an optical illusion caused from being so far away.”
“Forget the flares,” Blake said. “Where should we be looking for the test craft?”
“Focus above the mountain range, but don’t get your hopes up. They’ll fly it at a low enough altitude that the mountains block our view, or they’ll fly west.”
The four white flares parachuting above the Groom Mountains caught Val’s attention. He knew they were decoys, and a signal that something else would soon be in the air. At the south end of the base he studied an enormous hanger, offset from the other structures. Unfortunately his fear of venturing closer to the base that evening prevented him from seeing inside the hangar like he had intended. He had hoped to determine if it was a possible access point to the underground tunnel.
Diverting his attention, four Black Hawk helicopters lifted off the tarmac. They leveled at twenty-five feet and slowly thundered toward the runway’s northern end before assuming positions like points on a compass — north, south, east and west — far enough apart so their rotors would not touch.
A bank of blinding bright light cast outward from each helicopter. Val hadn’t realized until now that the tentacle-like missile launchers extending from the Black Hawks’ sides had been retrofitted with stadium lights. He realized the lights were hiding something centered on the runway among the four helicopters. Where’d that come from?
“Activate video … activate recorder,” Val instructed to the voice activated computer equipment entwined in his outfit, then began to dictate: “Approximately 0100 hours. Groom Lake air strip. Test craft is on the north end of the runway. My vision is impeded by four helicopters surrounding the craft, casting a circle of light outward, apparently to limit sightings of the craft by nonessential base personnel. Craft appeared from nowhere. Must be some type of underground hanger with a lift platform, like on an aircraft carrier. Craft appears to be fifty feet in diameter. Possibly circular, but cannot confirm from my position. Ten Air Force F-16’s — I assume they’re Air Force, no one else flies F-16’s — are flying holding patterns in the airspace above the base at varying altitudes.”
Other than the helicopters surrounding the craft, there was minimal activity on the base. That reminded Val about historical pictures he had seen, taken after previous Air Force flight tests, like when they broke the sound barrier for the first time. They never had large crowds. Only the pilots, ground crew and a few key officials were present.
“The craft is emitting an orange-red glow, like a fireball,” he blurted. The craft shot straight up, beyond Val’s field of vision. Raising his head, he caught sight. “Craft is hovering approximately five hundred feet above the runway … Craft is now moving down the runway, holding its altitude, traveling maybe a hundred miles per hour … Oh, ninety-degree turn left — another to the right. This isn’t an airplane. The craft is similar to the object I saw land in Papoose Valley on my last trip. It’s movements are shakier, maybe a less expensive model.
“Over there,” Blake said with a pensive but calm reaction, like a seasoned hunter spotting his prey. He pointed toward a distant dip in the mountain range, “An orange light, circular, only for a second.”
“I saw it,” Trevor yelped with boisterous excitement.
“That’s what they’re testing tonight,” Desmond said.
“Was it the Roswell spaceship?” Trevor asked.
“They keep that locked up in Papoose Valley,” Desmond replied. “We just saw the government’s attempt to reproduce it. What do you think, Blake?”
“I think I need to see a little more to agree with you.”