Area 51_The Sphinx Page 15

  Today, however, as the clock ticked down on Lexina’s threat, the crew manning the Launch Control Center (LCC) for this missile, code-named Interdictor, were programming it with space coordinates for a different mission.

  The surface entrance to the LCC was set in the middle of an open grassy space, about the size of a football field, surrounded on all sides by a twelve-foot-high fence topped with razor wire. No Trespassing signs were hung every ten feet on the fence. The signs also informed the curious that the use of deadly force was authorized against intruders. Video cameras, remote-controlled machine guns, a satellite dish, and a small radar dish were on the roof of the small entrance building, the latter two pointing at the cloudless sky.

  A hundred and fifty feet underground, the two members of the LCC crew were dressed in black one-piece flight suits. On their right shoulders they wore a patch showing Earth in the center with a lightning bolt coming off the surface into space. A Velcro tag on their chest gave their name, rank, and unit. Captain Linton was a skinny, dark-haired man. He sported Air Force-issue, black-framed, thick-lensed glasses. The LCC commander was Major Louise Greene, a tall blonde with a no-nonsense attitude befitting her position.

  Rows of machinery lined the forty-by-forty room. There was a gray tile floor, and the walls were painted dull gray up to three feet, then Air Force blue to the ceiling. Twelve years before, when Greene started in missiles, the LCCs had been painted colors that psychologists had determined would be conducive to the crew’s mental health during their extended tours of duty. That policy had been rescinded because of budget cutbacks and a change in command that had brought in a no-frills policy.

  The entire facility was a capsule suspended from four huge shock absorbers, theoretically allowing it to survive the concussion of a direct nuclear strike overhead. The theory had yet to be put to the test, and there was much speculation among missile crews as to whether that bit of 1960s engineering was outmoded.

  The main feature of the control room were the two consoles at the front of the room. Above those consoles, various screens showed scenes from the surface directly above, and the adjacent silo this center controlled.

  Greene’s and Linton’s attention was focused on a flashing red light that had just come on.

  “Verify Emergency Action Message,” Major Greene tersely ordered as she reached over her shoulders and pulled the straps for her seat down and buckled them in, pulling the slack out. The red light was flashing and a nerve-jarring tone was sounding throughout the LCC. She locked down the rollers on the bottom of the seat. Then she hit the keys on her computer.

  “I have verification of an incoming Emergency Action Message,” she announced. Linton was reading his terminal. “I have verification of an Emergency Action Message.”

  The screen cleared and new words formed. “Emergency Action Message received,” Greene said. She pulled a sealed red envelope out of the safe underneath her console and ripped it open. She checked it against what was on the screen. “EAM code is current and valid.”

  “Code current and valid,” Linton repeated, checking his own envelope. Greene’s fingers flew over the keys. The blinking message on her screen cleared and new words flashed:

  EAM: LAUNCH INTERDICTOR AS TARGETED

  “EAM execution is to launch Interdictor,” Greene announced. “Give me the launch status.”

  “Interdictor silo on line. Missile systems show green.”

  New words formed on the computer screen. “I have confirmation from National Command Authority that this is not a drill,” Greene announced. “Open silo.”

  “Opening silo.”

  Four hundred meters from the surface entrance to the Interdictor LCC was another fenced compound. Inside the razor wire topping the fence, two massive concrete doors slowly rose until they reached the vertical position. Inside a specially modified LGM-118A Peacekeeper ICBM missile rested, gas venting.

  “I’ve got green on silo doors,” Captain Linton announced, verifying what one of the video screens showed.

  “Green on silo,” Greene confirmed.

  • • •

  Deep underneath Ngorongoro Crater, Lexina put down the communicator that linked her to Etor. She turned the seat toward the large display panel in front of her. She had the view from Warfighter’s imagers relayed to the board and they were zeroing in on eastern Montana—to the coordinates she’d just received.

  The excellent equipment put into space by the Department of Defense clearly showed the silo doors opening. Lexina sent her commands to the talon to be relayed to Warfighter.

  • • •

  Inside the LCC there was controlled tension as the pair of officers ran down their checklists.

  “Confirm targeting on talon.” Greene was never one to leave anything to chance. Even though they’d spent four hours working with Space Command under Cheyenne Mountain to ensure that the Interdictor was targeted on the alien spacecraft, she wanted to check one more time. The talon and Warfighter was passing over the western coast of the United States, and this would be the only time the target would be in range until the deadline, when it would have Stratzyda under control. There was a narrow window to launch, and they were going to get only one chance.

  “Targeting coordinates confirmed,” Linton announced.

  “To launch control,” Greene ordered. Unlocking their seats, they both rolled along their respective tracks to the middle of the launch control room. The launch consoles faced each other but were separated by ten feet and a Plexiglas, bulletproof wall bisecting the room. A speaker in the wall allowed Greene and Linton to communicate. They locked their seats down in front of their respective consoles.

  Greene put her eyes against the retinal scanner and the computer’s voice echoed out of a speaker on the console.

  “Launch officer verified. You may insert key.”

  Greene pulled her red key from under her shirt and inserted it into the appropriate slot.

  The computer verified Linton’s retina and instructed him to insert his key. “All set,” Linton said.

  “Let’s do it,” Greene said, staring through the glass at Linton. “On my three to arm warhead timer. One. Two. Three.”

  They both turned their keys at the same time.

  The LGM-118A was primed to launch. Inside the nosecone was a ten-kiloton warhead, the warhead now live and scheduled to go off on a preset timer when its projected trajectory took it less than four hundred meters from the talon in six minutes.

  Major Greene looked up at the status board. Red digits were clicking down from six minutes, ten seconds.

  “Ten seconds to launch,” she announced. “On my three, turn to launch initiation.”

  “On your command,” Linton echoed.

  She watched the number pass through six minutes, five seconds, and her fingers tightened on the key.

  Traveling at the speed of light, the laser from Warfighter hit the rocket. The laser cut through the missile, destroying vital components.

  Inside the LCC, Greene and Linton caught a glimpse of the laser beam on one of their video screens. Their control board screamed red lights and Klaxons wailed. “Turn!” Greene yelled.

  They both twisted the key to initiate launch. Silence greeted their efforts. For a few seconds Greene and Linton sat absolutely still, looking at each other through the thick glass that separated them. Greene was the first to react. She quickly unbuckled her seat belt, snatching a small radio headset off the side of the console. She glanced at the timer, which was passing through five minutes, fifty seconds.

  Greene ran to a hatch on the side of the LCC, punching in her access code. Slowly the heavy steel door swung open. Before going into the tunnel that beckoned, she turned to Linton. “Shut the silo doors.” She put the headset on. “I’ll be on channel one.”

  Linton nodded, and Greene was gone, sprinting down the tunnel that linked the LCC with the Interdictor silo. The sound of her boots echoed off the reinforced concrete walls of the tunnel and another steel door
a hundred meters in front of her and rapidly coming closer as she picked up the pace, her mind counting off the seconds, estimating she now had less than five minutes.

  She reached the door and punched in her code. The door slowly opened, and Greene slithered through as soon as there was enough room. She was at the midpoint of the silo, the bulk of the rocket directly in front of her, five feet away. She turned and closed the hatch behind her, then began climbing up toward the bright daylight above her head.

  Inside the LCC, Linton typed in the command for the massive doors to close.

  Greene climbed as fast as she could, but it took a precious minute for her to reach the top gantry, which led to the nosecone. She paused for a second as a shadow cut across the silo. The doors were coming down, blocking off the daylight.

  She edged out onto the narrow gantry to the access panel for the nosecone. Using an Allen wrench from her harness, she furiously began unbolting the panel, seconds ticking away.

  With a solid thud the doors shut, leaving her trapped inside with the missile. The earpiece came alive with Linton’s voice. “Two minutes, thirty seconds.”

  There were six hex nuts to remove, and she had two out. She scraped her hand, drawing blood, but didn’t notice any pain. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  “Two minutes,” Linton announced.

  She had two more nuts out. As she worked, she mentally ran through the procedure for disabling the timer. In training she had done it in twenty-two seconds. The fifth nut was out.

  “One minute, thirty seconds.”

  She put the Allen wrench into the sixth hex nut. She twisted, but it didn’t budge. Greene cursed, putting more pressure on the wrench, feeling the pain as the metal dug into her fingers. Nothing. She paused and took a deep breath. “One minute.”

  “Come on, come on,” Greene whispered as she torqued the wrench. With a slight pop, the wrench broke in two, a piece of it still stuck in the hex nut. Greene stared at the piece in her hand in disbelief. A simple, dollar-ninety-nine piece of metal.

  “Thirty seconds!” Linton’s voice had an edge of hysteria.

  Greene clawed at the broken piece, trying to get it out of the nut. “Twenty seconds!”

  A fingernail ripped off and she didn’t even notice. A part of her mind knew it was too late.

  “Ten seconds! Are you in?” Linton’s voice was loud in her ear. She took off the headset, wanting one last moment of silence.

  Greene slumped back, sitting on the metal gantry. She looked down at her bloody hands and the broken piece of metal. She closed her eyes and unconsciously hunched forward, as if preparing for a strong wind.

  The missile, silo, and Greene were vaporized. The LCC, two hundred meters away, was destroyed by the shock wave radiating out. The thick twenty-ton surface doors to the silo were blown into the air and were found half a mile away, but they did help contain some of the blast. A hundred-meter-wide crater, over sixty meters deep, was all that remained where the silo had been.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania

  D - 34 Hours, 30 Minutes

  Six hundred pounds of Semtex, a Czech-made plastic explosive, welded to the body of a water tanker truck, had formed the bomb that destroyed the United States Embassy in Dar es Salaam in 1998. Colonel Nakibsu Balele, an officer in the Tanzanian army, had overseen the import of the explosive from a source in the Middle East and personally wired the fuses into the plastique once it was in place on the truck.

  That the blast killed only eleven he saw as something of a failure, but whether the goal of the person who had hired him was achieved was not important. The key thing was that he had been paid quite well.

  While still a junior major he had been given a cellular phone by a strange man along with a bundle of money. How the man had selected him, Balele never knew. The money was to carry the phone with him at all times, the man had explained. There would be more money, much more, if he followed the instructions relayed by whoever was on the other end when it rang. Balele had not asked what would happen if he didn’t answer the phone or follow the orders—he was not that naive.

  The man had scared him more than anyone else he had ever met. Balele had heard whispers of the man, a figure revered in the terrorist world of the Middle East who went by the name Al-Iblis.

  The phone had rung only once in the four years since he was given it, with instructions to pick up the Semtex, wire it, and arrange for the driver to take the bomb to the embassy.

  The Americans had blamed Bin Laden, an Afghani, for the embassy attack in Dar es Salaam and Kenya, which was fine with Balele as it kept him in the clear.

  Now, as he sat in his office, reviewing training records, the cell phone rang for the second time.

  Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania

  D - 33 Hours

  Professor Mualama and Lago stared in fascination as the disk silently flew into the crater. It was thirty feet wide at the base, sloping up to a small rounded top. The skin of the bouncer was silver and perfectly smooth, without a single seam to be seen. The only thing that marred the perfection of the alien craft were the bright red cargo straps that were wrapped over the rim of the disk.

  The craft came to a halt near their position, then came straight down, lightly touching the ground. A hatch opened in the top side and a woman climbed out. “Good day!” Mualama greeted her.

  “Good day, Professor Mualama. I’m Dr. Lisa Duncan from UNAOC.” She looked toward the pit and the objects on the ground next to the hole. “Is that what you called us about?”

  “Yes.”

  Mualama and Lago led her over to the coffin and tomb marker. The top was closed, and the long black tube appeared unmarked by time.

  “What is it?” Duncan asked.

  Mualama answered that by opening the top, revealing the skeleton inside. “An Airlia!” Duncan knelt down next to the coffin and examined the corpse before turning to the red stone. “What about the marker? Can you read it?”

  “Some of it,” Mualama said. “I was hoping that with your access to Professor Nabinger’s notes, we could decipher the entire message.”

  “We have accumulated a limited high rune symbolic vocabulary at UNAOC,” Duncan said. “But critical parts of Professor Nabinger’s notes were lost when he was killed in China. Nabinger was onto something, some way of understanding it beyond the symbols, but whatever that was died with him and he never had the time to tell anyone. He also had the largest high rune database on the face of the planet, and that went down in that helicopter in China with him.”

  “He made no copies?” Mualama was surprised.

  “None that we’ve found.” Duncan stood up. “We’re backtracking, looking where he looked, and we’ve gathered a large amount of information.” She pointed down. “This will help.”

  “With what you do have,” Mualama said, “can you make anything of this?”

  “That will take some time,” Duncan said. “We’ll have to take all this back with us.”

  “This is an archaeological site, protected by the laws of Tanzania,” Mualama said.

  Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Have you heard what happened in South America with the Black Death?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with this,” Mualama said.

  “It’s war,” Duncan said. “And any piece of information is important. We don’t know much about these Airlia, and this”—she pointed at the skeleton in the coffin—“is the first true Airlia body we’ve gotten our hands on. Examining it could help us greatly in our struggle.”

  Mualama nodded. “I am willing to give you what I have found if you give me access to whatever notes of Nabinger’s you have.”

  “What we really need,” Duncan said, “is a key.”

  “A key?” Mualama repeated.

  “The key to the lowest level of the tomb of Qian-Ling.”

  “Qian-Ling is in China,” Mualama noted. “Why would there be a key for that here?”

  “Because it’
s Airlia!” Duncan was frustrated, her hope crushed. “Who knows where all their artifacts are now.”

  “I think that…” Mualama paused and cocked his head.

  “What is it?” Duncan asked.

  Mualama held up a hand, hushing her as he slowly turned in a circle. He stopped, facing southeast. “Someone is coming.”

  • • •

  Colonel Balele saw the bouncer on the floor of Ngorongoro Crater first. He had seen pictures of the alien craft on TV, but to see one here, now, gave him a moment’s pause as the Hind-D helicopter he was on swooped over the rim of the crater toward the craft. The voice on the other end of the phone had told him to interdict removal of an artifact from the crater and to kill all involved.

  The voice had also promised one million dollars U.S. if he achieved this goal—more than enough for him to leave Tanzania and retire in style. Also in the message he had read the implicit threat: fail and be killed.

  “Sir?” The pilot of the Hind was looking over his shoulder at the colonel. Balele was standing in the small opening that led to the rear of the chopper, where six armed infantrymen from Balele’s command sat.

  “Destroy the craft and the people.”

  The pilot nodded.

  • • •

  Mualama shaded his eyes. “It’s a helicopter with army markings.”

  “I think we’d better get out of here,” Duncan suggested.

  “If we leave this”—Mualama pointed at the stone and coffin—“they will impound it or, worse, destroy it.”

  “We have no weapons,” Duncan said. “The bouncer is unarmed.”

  The decision was made for them as the 12.7 mm machine gun in the nose of the helicopter cut loose. The burst hit Lago, the large-caliber bullets knocking his body to the ground and then, in a grotesque dance, pushing it along the dirt, shredding flesh and bone.

  “Nephew!” Mualama headed toward the body, when Duncan grabbed his arm. “He’s dead! With me!” She pulled him toward the coffin.