The trip was a short one. They would reach their destination in approximately twenty-two minutes.

  2:50:12 A.M. PDT Flight Control Tower Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Airman Trudi Hwang was the only air traffi c controller on duty that night. Since the process of base deactivation had begun, the pace of the flights had diminished, and so had the work load. With all but one of the dormitories unoccupied, the full-time staff cut to less that a hundred, there was less and less to do.

  In the old days, a minimum of two controllers were required on every shift. Nowadays, it was two guys in the morning, two in the afternoon, and one lonely and bored controller on the graveyard shift.

  Trudi sat up in her chair and stared out of the tall windows. The night sky was black and strewn with stars. Not even the brilliant lights of Las Vegas interfered with the star shine here in the desert. She sighed and reached for her tea, to fi nd it ice cold.

  A desert it may be, Trudi mused, but it’s still damn cold in the middle of the night.

  She glanced at the clock. JANET 9, the next fl ight of the evening, arrived in less than ten minutes. She’d already verifi ed the IFF signal, and the pilot had radioed in. If she bothered to look, Airman Hwang could watch the blip approaching the base on her radar. Instead she headed for the tiny kitchenette to brew more tea.

  Feeling lonely, she considered calling Tom, the night officer downstairs, just to hear a human voice. But the man on security detail in the tiny terminal building would only think she was interested in him and hit on her. The military was different than the real world. A girl had to watch how she presented herself, lest the men around her neglect to take her seriously.

  She was filling the tea pot at the sink when a silhouette loomed in the doorway. Startled, Trudi yelped.

  “Whoa. Calm down. It’s me . . . Beverly.”

  The woman stepped into the light and Trudi breathed a sigh of relief. “Dr. Chang. You scared the heck out of me.”

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  Beverly Chang smiled, displayed a plastic bound folder. “Sorry. I was delivering the new security protocol codes.”

  “You could have left them in the box,” Trudi replied, moving the pot to the hot plate. “Or you could have delivered them tomorrow.”

  “I was awake. Big demonstration today, another experiment Tuesday. Lots to do . . .”

  Turning away from the woman, Trudi shook her head. “I don’t know how you scientist types do it, I mean—”

  The silenced gun coughed twice. Trudi tried to cry out. Instead she dropped the tea pot and pitched forward.

  Beverly Chang gripped the gun in her trembling hand, stared down at the corpse at her feet. She dropped the weapon and ran out of the tower and down the stairs. Another body sprawled on the terminal’s linoleum floor. She stepped over the murdered duty offi cer, burst through the door.

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:02:51 A.M. PDT Runway 33R/15L Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Beverly Chang listened for the sound of jet engines. After a seemingly interminable wait, she heard a distant whine. Minutes passed. Finally blinking lights appeared in the black night sky. The lights dipped, dropping below the mountain range, plunging into Emigrant Valley.

  Finally, Dr. Chang watched the Boeing 737 touch down in a cloud of desert dust, then taxi along Runway 33R/15L until it reached the tiny terminal building.

  Covering her ears against the noise, Beverly rushed

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  to the airplane the moment the passenger door opened. Two men—Chinese—jumped out and ran to retrieve the portable steps. It took them only a moment to roll the stairs to the aircraft. The first man to emerge at the top of the stairs was Jong Lee, an armed woman behind him.

  “Jong Lee. I must speak with you,” Beverly cried.

  Lee descended the steps. Ignoring her, he moved aside while armed men poured out of the airplane. Guns drawn, boots pounding on the concrete, they fanned out across the facility. Beverly counted thirty men, most, but not all of them Asians.

  “Jong Lee, don’t ignore me,” she demanded. “I have done everything you’ve asked of me.”

  Finally, the tall man faced her. “Everything?”

  Beverly Chang nodded. “I’ve given you the security codes. I killed the people in the tower.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And Malignant Wave?”

  “The device has been installed in a prototype helicopter in Hangar Five. The aircraft is ready to fl y.”

  Beverly reached out to clutch his arm. Yizi pushed her away.

  “My sister. Her family,” Dr. Chang cried. “You promised me they would be set free in exchange for what I’ve done.”

  Jong Lee well knew, and exploited, Beverly Chang’s tragic family history. While Beverly and her family immigrated to America in the 1970s, the woman’s infant sister remained with her grandparents. The young woman became an outspoken member of the Falun Gong movement, and she and her family were among the fi rst to be arrested when the People’s Republic of China began to suppress the quasi-religious movement in the 1990s. As far as Lee was concerned, they’d earned their fate, as Beverly Chang would now earn hers.

  “They have been freed, Dr. Chang. Join them.”

  Yizi stepped forward, sai raised.

  Pizarro Rojas exited the plane at that moment. Beside him an unruffled Stella Hawk, her makeup and hair painstakingly restored to their former glory, paused at the top of the stairs.

  The pair watched as Yizi thrust her razor-sharp sai into Dr. Beverly Chang’s throat. With a gargling cry, the woman grabbed Yizi’s wrists in a death grip, while she twitched and bucked on the end of the three-pronged blade like a speared fish. Finally, Dr. Chang died, and Yizi let the corpse slide to the ground. The assassin stepped back, trembling, her glassy eyes staring in fascination at the bloodied blades.

  Stella Hawk observed the woman’s bizarre behavior, shook her head sadly. “Man, that chick’s got a lot of issues.”

  3:13:54 A.M. PDT Hangar Five, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Cold water dashed Tony’s face. He tried to open his eyes, blinked against the harsh fl uorescent light.

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  “Come on, Alvarez, wake up. We need to talk.”

  A hand slapped Tony’s cheek. He winced, opened his eyes. Tony realized he was sitting up, but when he tried to stand he found he’d been strapped to a metal chair.

  “Sorry, pal,” Sable said with a smirk. “You’ve got to stay put while I arrange a little industrial accident.”

  The left side of Tony’s face throbbed and he shook his head to clear it.

  “Sorry about the beat down, buddy. You look pretty good, all things considered. I wrapped the wrench with cloth. Didn’t want to leave too many marks. Might look suspicious.”

  “You want my death to look like an accident.” Tony said, his voice hoarse.

  Sable tossed one end of a long length of electrical cable on the floor, then hooked the other end to a large generator. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  Tony twisted his head to look around. He wasn’t in the dorm anymore. Sable had brought him to Hangar Five, just a few dozen feet away from the Blackfoot helicopter prototype.

  Sable touched the frayed end of the cable to the tip of a power meter, grinned in satisfaction.

  “Smooth move, the way you swiped my phone, then put it back,” Sable said. “I wouldn’t have known, except I added my own feature to the software—a download log that I check every time I use the phone.”

  Tony groaned, pulled on the electric cables binding his hands and feet.

  Steve Sable slipped an insulated glove over his hand.

  “Now we’re going to have a little talk, Tony . . . If

  that’s your name—”

  “Go to hell.”

  “What are you? Air Force Intelligence? DEA? The Swiss Guard?”

  Tony refused to answer, so Sable touched his knee with the frayed end of the electrical cable. A blue fl ash, and Tony cried out. The smell of scorched fl esh wafted into his nostrils.

  “What do you know?” Sable asked. He held the electrified cable in the gloved hand, twirled it like a lasso. Then he whipped it across Tony’s chest. Another flash, more acrid smoke rose. The tendons stood out on Tony’s neck and arms.

  “It’s what do we know, Sable,” Tony replied, sweat streaming down his naked torso. “We know you’ve been selling advanced technology to criminal gangs through Hugo Bix. We know you sold a stealth device to the Rojas Cartel. We know enough to put you away for life, no matter what you do to me.”

  “What I’ll do to you will look like an accident—”

  “You won’t fool anyone,” Tony cried.

  “I will, just long enough to board the six AM fl ight out of here. By the time they find your corpse, I’ll be heading South.”

  Tony stared at the man.

  “Oh, yeah, Tony. Don’t act so surprised.” Sable smirk was reason enough to kill him. Tony strained at his bonds.

  “You’re looking at a man with a plan. I made Bix a pair of military style jamming systems like none before. I also made another stealth device—this one my

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  2.0 model. Very much improved. Delivered them last week. In return, Bix promised me a ticket out of the

  U.S. of A. and a comfy job with the cartels.”

  Sable laughed. “I did a little vocational research and guess what? Technical advisors working for drug cartels have a much better lifestyle than slobs who work for the federal government. We’re talking seaside villas. A mistress or three. Fancy cars and a hefty bank account. I don’t know about you, but to me a seaside villa sounds a whole lot better than some trailer park in Pahrump—”

  Sable’s rant was interrupted by the a burst of machine gun fi re and a woman’s scream.

  3:42:31 A.M. PDT Groom Lake Air Force Base

  The strike had been decisive and Jong Lee had reason to rejoice. Stepping over the machine-gunned woman sprawled on the tarmac—a civilian worker reporting early for the next flight home—Jong’s face remained impassive, even as he reviewed his successes.

  The late Dr. Chang had paved the way for their undetected landing. The communications jamming device supplied to the Colombians through Hugo Bix was working perfectly. The scarred man, Roland Arrias, was inside the Boeing 737, monitoring the device to ensure that all communications in and out of Groom Lake were cut off.

  Meanwhile Captain Hsu’s strike team had stormed the puny garrison and slaughtered the security staff.

  While the Cubans searched the hangars for fugitive Air Force personnel or cowering researchers, Jong Lee issued new orders to Captain Hsu.

  “Go to Dormitory B. It is the only one that is occupied,” Jong said. “I want you to capture all the scientists and researchers staying there, bring them back here. I will decide who is useful, and we will take them with us. The others will be executed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to place two guards around the airplane, and have it refueled. We will depart within the hour. With the stealth device the Cubans installed, the 737 will be invisible to American radar. We will cross the border and land at our base in Mexico three hours from now.”

  Hsu nodded.

  “And after you’ve brought the prisoners here, you must make preparations for your solo flight in the Blackfoot, Captain Hsu.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  4:08:05 A.M. PDT Hangar Five, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Face tense, eyes wide, Steve Sable peered through a gap in the hangar door. Another gunshot echoed in the night.

  “Son of a—they shot somebody else,” Sable cried. “A mechanic, I think. Guys in black BDUs pulled him out of the big hangar . . . shot him in the back of the head, execution-style.”

  Tony, still bound, twisted his head to face his captor.

  “They’re after the technology in Hangar 18. Lots of equipment there. They got a taste for high-tech from the stuff you peddled. Now they’re here for the rest.”

  Tony paused to listen as another burst was unleashed.

  “They’re getting close, Sable. They’re going to be here soon. What do you think they’re going to do to you?”

  Sable heard cries outside, backed away from the door.

  “Listen,” Tony said. “You were right. I’m an agent for the Counter Terrorist Unit. Cut me loose and I can deal with these guys. Send an SOS—”

  “You can’t send shit!” Sable cried. He slammed his cell phone down on the workbench. “Everything is jammed. The cell phone is worthless.”

  “I have weapons,” Tony said. “Stashed in Hangar Six. Cut me loose and I can protect you.”

  Eyes shifting like a frightened animal, Sable hovered over Tony.

  “Yeah, how can I trust you?” he asked.

  “You have no choice,” Tony replied, staring straight ahead.

  Tony felt cold steel against his wrists. “You’ve got to understand this was nothing personal, Tony. What I did to you I did to survive. Now we’re on the same side, right?”

  While Sable babbled, he cut away the cables until Tony was free. Groaning, the CTU agent reached down and rubbed his legs where the wires chafed him. Then he reached for something lying on the fl oor.

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  “You’re free, Tony. Buddies again, right? Don’t forget to tell the feds how I helped you. After this is over, I want to cut some kind of a deal.”

  “Sure,” Tony replied. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Sable extended his arm, and Tony thrust the live wire into his open hand. Sable jerked as if struck, reeled against the workbench. He wagged his arm to free his hand, but the circuit would not be broken. Like a poisonous serpent that sank its fangs deep into flesh, the cable pumped thousands of volts through Steve Sable’s twitching body. Tony crossed to the generator and turned up the juice.

  He waited until Sable was on his back, and smoke was coming out of the man’s ears, eyes and nostrils before he cut the power.

  “Yeah, there’s your deal, old buddy,” snarled Tony.

  Legs numb, Tony stumbled to the hangar door, peered through the crack. He saw the Boeing 737 squatting on the tarmac, two men guarding it, both armed with assault rifles. A third man was pumping jet fuel into the aircraft. It was clear the enemy—whoever they were—was planning to escape in the same aircraft that brought them.

  Tony grinned mirthlessly. Not if I can help it.

  Shirtless, Tony was clad in light gray sweat pants and white sneakers that practically glowed in the dark—no match for the black camouflaged BDUs the bad guys were wearing. After he stashed Dr. Sable’s still smoldering corpse in a storage bin, Tony raced to the grease pit behind the helicopter.

  Dipping his hand in the muck, Tony smeared the brackish tar all over his pants, his shoes, then his hard-muscled arms and torso. Finally, he streaked oil across his forehead, his cheeks, under his eyes.

  Tony moved to the rear of the hanger. On the way he grabbed Sable’s cell phone and tucked it into his sweats.

  Who knows, I might get to use it yet, he thought.

  Cautiously, Tony slipped out the back door and vanished in the fast fading night. . .

  4:49:14 A.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Jong Lee’s commandos had corralled their hostages in Hangar Six. The doors were open and the massive interior of the hangar blazed with light.

  The hostages, mostly scientists, engineers and researchers, had been rousted out of their beds and marched to this place. Many still wore robes, pajamas, sweats or underwear, and walked in bare feet or slippers. The few airmen and officers spared immediate execution were in uniform or work clothes. Now everyone was huddled on the concrete floor, hands on their heads, and their armed captors silently watched over them.

  Captain Hsu’s men had stormed the dormitory and captured its occupants in an effi cient and methodical manner. But the prisoners soon learned that their captors were prone to casual violence if their authority was challenged in the smallest way.

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  As they were herded out of the dorm at the start of their march, Dr. Megan Reed—ridiculously clad in a pink Meow, Meow Kitty teddy and little else—refused to obey one of the soldier’s commands quickly enough, and was knocked to the ground by the butt of his rifle. Corporal Stratowski moved to defend the woman and was executed on the spot, in front of everyone.

  After that, the hostages were cowed, though Dr. Bascomb had to be restrained by Alvin Toth, or the middle-aged, pony-tailed scientist would have been murdered, too.

  Gunfire could be heard all over the base. While Captain Hsu grabbed the prisoners, the bulk of the raiders descended on the hangars, stripping them of everything of value.

  When the hostages were led past a 737 parked on the runway near Hangar 18, they saw men in black BDUs packing the cargo bays with everything from computers to prototypes of advanced weapons systems, test missiles, even bits of random machinery. Like technology-starved locusts, the raiders stripped advanced avionics systems out of the cockpit of experimental aircraft, looted file cabinets, ripped the hard drives out of every computer.

  From her spot on the floor, Dr. Reed observed the activity swirling around the airplane. She also used her time to study their captors, listen to their words. Some of the men spoke Spanish, but most were Asians and spoke a dialect of Chinese. If Dr. Chang were here, she could translate. Megan wondered what had happened to her friend, Beverly. Perhaps she got away.

  Dani Welles sidled a little closer to her boss. “How’s the jaw?” she whispered.

  Megan Reed frowned. She’d done everything she could to forget the pain. It only reminded her of Corporal Stratowski’s sacrifi ce and filled her with guilt. She’d counted the hostages in the hangar—twentytwo. She busied her highly-trained brain a dozen different ways, yet nothing worked. The image of Corporal Stratowski’s final seconds would suddenly flood her mind. The memory was impossible to ignore.

 

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