Adams smiled at her and pointed over her shoulder at the chain-link fence surrounding Area 51.
Lynn turned and looked, then groaned in disbelief. ‘Oh no,’ she said forlornly. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
26
The fence was not in fact the formidable obstacle it at first seemed. It was really a demarcation line more than anything, a way of letting base personnel know where they could and could not go. In terms of security, it was assumed that it was impossible to get past the body-heat and motion detectors placed all over the surrounding desert, and the roving patrols of guards.
Getting closer, though, Adams could see that although the fence wasn’t physically impressive — just one row of chain-link, ten feet high — its entire length was linked to both motion and body-heat sensors. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy.
Adams crouched in the shadows, his night vision picking out what looked like a gate some distance away, and after a moment’s observation, he could see that this was where the security vehicles must have passed through.
‘Come on,’ he whispered to Lynn, motioning towards the gate.
‘The main gate?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘It’s not the main gate,’ he whispered back, ‘it’s a minor side gate. And I think it’s still open.’
He took her by the hand, keeping low as they moved along the fence line towards the gate. Fifty metres out, they both crouched down again, straining to make out the details of the gate. Around them, far out in the desert, they heard the sound of off-road vehicles struggling over the rough terrain, helicopters circling the skies above, and voices shouting orders. Here, though, there seemed to be a complete absence of activity; Adams could only presume that the gate had been left temporarily open to aid the vehicles that would doubtlessly be streaming in and out all night.
Suddenly, engine noise from the rear caused him to grab Lynn by the arm and pull her down close to the sandy ground. Looking over their shoulders, they saw two 4x4s heading back to base. They watched closely as the off-roaders crashed along the bumpy terrain before passing through the gate, their headlights illuminating what Adams could now see was a small, deserted sentry box.
They continued to watch for several moments, until Adams turned to Lynn. ‘Other vehicles are at least a mile away,’ he said, able to pick up the sounds quite easily across the barren desert. He gestured for the gate. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘So where are we?’ Caines asked over the secure comms link, hoping for something — anything — that would help resolve this terrible situation.
‘Nothing so far,’ he heard Barnes report back immediately. ‘There’s nothing out here but the damn sand!’
Caines could hear the man’s frustration, and it was reflected in the answers that followed from the drivers of the 4x4 recon vehicles and the pilots of the helicopters. Nobody had found anything.
He turned back to the monitors, the bustling team that swarmed around the office all but invisible to him.
Where the hell were they?
At the same moment that Caines was asking himself that question, his prey were within less than a hundred metres of the Main Security Building, both parties unaware of the other’s presence.
Adams knew what the large brick building across the runway tarmac was, however, having been briefed on Area 51’s major structural layout by Stephenfield, and he knew to avoid it. It was to the south-west of a similar building, which he knew to be some sort of laboratory for something called Precision Measuring Equipment. To the north of that, and now directly opposite him, was the very large building that housed the base headquarters. But he still couldn’t tell where the underground building in which they had been held was. But, he supposed, he didn’t have to know; what he wanted was now within reach anyway.
Both Adams and Lynn were amazed by how big the base was, how sprawling, almost like a small township, albeit one that consumed the same amount of electricity as a large city. Dozens of buildings, from small barracks to large warehouses and vehicle hangars, were spread over a vast area, and then there were the seven brightly lit runways, each with their own command towers and support vehicles.
The inner base, however, seemed to be almost deserted, the search for them outside the base mercifully consuming almost all of the security force’s resources. They had crossed one runway after another, moving low across the terrain between them and fast across the smooth tarmac, always keeping to whatever shadows they could, until they reached the runway nearest the headquarters building.
As they crouched there, Adams pointed to the row of six Boeing 737 passenger jets, their fuselages painted white with a red stripe down each side. ‘The Janet planes,’ Adams whispered to Lynn, before pointing to one on the far side, which a crew was busy fuelling.
Adams looked up at the moon and stars in the sky. The base’s high-powered floodlights made them more difficult to read but not altogether impossible. ‘It’s just after five,’ he told Lynn, dawn still a long way off on the winter morning. ‘First flight out is at six o’clock, when the non-resident workers are flown back home after the nightshift.’
‘And what does that have to do with us?’ Lynn asked, although she suspected she already knew the answer.
‘We’re going to catch it with them,’ he whispered back.
The plane doors were closed and locked, Adams knew that even from their position across the runway, but they couldn’t afford to wait. Before long, the non-resident workers would be streaming out of headquarters and arriving in minibuses from other parts of the base, all ready for home, and the plane would be surrounded with people.
And so he and Lynn edged as close as they could, waited until all support personnel had left the area, and then ran across the tarmac to the landing gear at a near sprint, careful to keep low and within whatever shadow they could. Then Adams pushed Lynn up the massive tyre of the lead wheel, before pulling himself up behind her, continuing on up into the wheel housing, into the deep, dark bowels of the aircraft. They squeezed up past the tightly packed machinery, now out of sight of anyone outside, until they made it up to the top of the housing.
Clutching the top of the landing gear strut, Adams reached around in the dark until his hand found a lever. Pulling it, a small square access port opened into the aircraft proper, and he crawled through first, his body only just fitting. He thought at first that his shoulders wouldn’t fit but finally managed to collapse them sufficiently to edge through. He pulled Lynn in quickly after him, her lithe body proving a much easier fit.
Adams left the hatch open, the reflected light from the runway beneath providing their only source of illumination. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw that they were inside the cargo hold, which was half-filled with metallic containers.
The crates were secured to the floor, and Adams picked out one that nestled close up against the rear bulkhead. He closed the hatch, the darkness immediately enveloping them like a thick blanket, and took Lynn’s hand, leading her to his chosen hiding place behind the crate. They wouldn’t remain hidden if the cargo hold was checked but Adams figured that with attention focused out in the desert, the chances of a search weren’t likely.
Then they waited, and waited, for six o’clock, hoping against hope that the schedule would be adhered to.
At six o’clock the aircraft started taxiing, and within ten more minutes they felt the small Boeing accelerate off down the runway and lift into the air.
Relief flooded them both.
27