I hope.
Before something like that happened, I would at least like the chance to make up with Jennifer. Last night hadn’t been exactly pleasant. She’d wanted to report our attack immediately to the police, but given the threat the men had said to me in the gym, I wanted to find out what the hell was going on, and the police would do nothing to break that down. Instead, we’d simply get tied up with some Barney Fife who wanted to know what we’d done to provoke the attack.
We’d had it out and she’d ended up slamming her door in my face. Pretty much like I was back in Guatemala chasing after her uncle.
I’d stomped off to my room and, using the wallet I’d taken off the lanky man, I’d started drilling down on the Internet to find out who our attackers were. I’d found lanky-boy on LinkedIn and it turned out that he worked for a security firm called Blackhorse Tactical. He was ex-military, but I couldn’t get to his records to see what he’d done. The company website showed the usual outlay of such firms: flat range tactical firearms instruction, close quarters battle courses for law enforcement and military, protective services, and an assortment of other training venues.
So I had the company he worked for, but no real linkage as to whether that was just a coincidence or actually tied to what had happened in the gym. Since the company was based out of North Carolina, on the surface it looked like coincidence. The guy was an independent contractor, so maybe he lived in Roswell in between jobs. Maybe.
I didn’t buy that, though. Jennifer was convinced I was forcing something so I could go play commando, but it was just the opposite: Playing commando for years had given me a sixth sense about these types of events. I had a skill at sniffing out bad things. And this positively stank.
Since I was at a dead end, I’d called the Taskforce, telling the intel weanie who answered to figure out if there was any connection. Within minutes, I’d gotten a call back from Kurt Hale, wanting to know what I was doing freelancing his intelligence cell. I laid out what I had and I’ll be damned if he didn’t side with Jennifer, saying I was seeing ghosts that didn’t exist.
I’d gotten aggravated, saying, “Sir, just tell me if Blackhorse has any contracts in Roswell. I can’t find that out, but you can. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing.”
He said, “Is this something to do with Jennifer? Are you trying to build up her resume with some contrived shit?”
That really poked a sore spot. “Sir, I don’t have to build up her resume, damn it. You let her have a slot at Selection and she’d show you that.”
“Pike, it takes more than a pretty face.”
My voice low, I said, “You don’t think I know that? She’s smarter than anyone on the teams, but you’re just as big a fuckin’ hater as the rest of them. Too blind to see it.”
I heard nothing for a second, then, “You’d better take a step back, sergeant-major. You keep talking about Jennifer, but I’m not even sure I want you back.”
I hammered my hotel room wall with the edge of my fist. Like a twelve-car pileup on an icy road, I saw the damage all around me but was powerless to stop what was happening. I was sliding inexorably into the wreckage. I said, “Sir. Please. I’m sorry. Look, don’t make this about me. And whatever you do, don’t let my big mouth hurt Jennifer’s shot.”
I heard him take a breath, once again becoming the commander I knew he was. “Okay, Pike. If you can show me that Jennifer’s got something to offer that I can’t get anywhere else, I’ll think about it. Maybe.”
“That’s all I ask. Really.”
He said, “Fine,” then nothing else. I waited, the silence drawing out to the point of becoming uncomfortable. Not knowing what else to say, I asked, “In the meantime, can you at least tell me if Blackhorse has a contract around Roswell? Something’s going on out here, and it stinks of government.”
I heard, “You are killing me.” Then, “Crabtree, get your ass over here. Pike has some questions.”
After five minutes with Crabtree, I’d learned that Blackhorse was a fairly small organization, without any cool-guy contracts. Far from what their website showed, they spent most of their time snapping up the refuse of government jobs. In this case, they had a perimeter security contract for a company called Aegis Solutions. An aerospace firm that did a bunch of top-secret things only alluded to on their website. And they were doing something in Roswell.
Setting up shop on the old Walker Air Force Base south of town, Aegis was hip-deep inside the contracting world of the US government, but the Taskforce stopped trying to get details when they saw how classified the project was. Something “Top Secret” and “Eyes Only,” which in the aerospace industry usually meant a ton of money being dropped for very little return. Crabtree could have poked harder, but it would have meant risking exposure of our own organization. Ironically, Aegis would probably call our unit a ton of money being dropped for very little return. They might have an argument except for the fact that we actually prevented people from dying as opposed to simply paying for congressional votes.
But I’m a little biased.
I got the pinpoint location from Crabtree and told him not to worry. I’d figure it out for myself. I’d left the hotel with only an hour before sunrise, sliding a note under Jennifer’s door. I knew she’d be aggravated, but I wanted to find out what was going on. At the time, I figured I’d be back before she woke up. Now, I hoped she’d just stay put.
Aegis had a sector of land on the old Walker Air Force Base that was now no longer used. Unfortunately, the base had also become the “international” airport of Roswell.
Ever wonder why every airport in America is called “international”? Yeah, me too. In this case, the Roswell airport had taken over the runways of the old Air Force Base, with most of the remaining land leased out. Walker used to be a strategic nuclear strike platform, with a bunch of old bunkers all designed to launch a bomber with nukes before the fateful ICBM struck from Russia. Aegis had taken over one such platform.
It was pretty ingenious, actually. Their back door was protected by the airport, which, after 9/11, had become a security nightmare. There was no way I was getting close by that route. So I went the other way.
I’d traveled around to the front, then parked in the desert, going dismounted for a closer recce. I saw the perimeter fence and began probing every hundred meters, but the place was sealed up tight as a drum. The fence itself had razor tape on the top, and telltale strips of aluminum threaded in the chain link. It was wired for disturbance. If I tried to climb it, a sensor would alert, much like a spider waiting for a vibration in a web. Which told me something big was going on inside. Why have such an expensive security system unless you were protecting something?
I’d worked in a lot of secure environments of three letter agencies — CIA, NSA, you name it. Very few had this level of security, and none were out in the middle of nowhere. It perked my interest, but I’d have to find another way to get inside.
Using a pair of cheap binos I’d purchased at an all-night Walmart, I could see the bunker-like building and the hangars outside, but nothing else. By the time the sun had climbed in the sky I was no closer to finding out what the hell was going on. All I’d seen was a roving mounted patrol that ripped along the fence line every hour.
I was considering heading back to the hotel when I saw a ribbon of dust in the distance. It approached the front gate and I ducked into the dirt. I was wearing drab clothing — a khaki shirt and some brown brush pants — so I was fairly sure they wouldn’t spot me in the ditch next to the gate, but it wasn’t a given.
I was even less sure of my dumb-ass idea, especially considering the video cameras at the gate.