Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (34 page)

There was a
lot
of acreage down there to hide a nuclear weapon.
 
If Waterloo had not gone to Groom Lake after all, or if he hadn’t yet reached the area, Craig wouldn’t know where to begin looking.

He pushed his sunglasses back into place, fidgeting again.
 
He turned to the pilot and raised his voice over the incessant chopping.
 
“Where are we, exactly?”

“Probably nowhere on any AAA map.”
 
The pilot’s mirrored sunglasses reflected Craig’s features.
 
He pointed to the horizon, toward the black thunderheads.
 
“Just crossed the northern boundary of the Test Site into Nellis, I think.
 
The Air Force bombing range starts at the corner of that dry lakebed below us.
 
Let’s hope the flyboys got the word, so they don’t use us for target practice.”
 
The helicopter bumped along on the storm gusts.

“I’ll get us the proper approvals,” Craig said.
 
“Just keep going straight to Groom Lake.
 
Best possible speed.”
 

Craig sank back in his seat, feeling helpless and desperate to hurry.
 
He tapped his fingers on the console beside him, then glanced at his watch.
 
After his creepy conversation with Waterloo and the other evidence he had found, the connection with Nellis and Groom Lake made so much sense.
 
The militia didn’t even have to smuggle the warhead out of the sprawling reservation, only deeper
inside.
 

But why?
 
What did they hope to accomplish by blowing up a hidden part of a high-security military base?
 
To destroy evidence of some sort of conspiracy?
 
But the government already denied all activities at the restricted facility.
 
And the aftereffects of the nuclear detonation, even way out here, would be devastating for the country.

The pilot put a finger to his right earphone.
 
“Stand by, one,” he said.
 
Reaching down, he pulled out a pair of headphones with an attached microphone and handed them to Craig.
 
“Looks like you’re going to have to do some fast talking to convince them we should keep on going into the restricted air space.
 
They think we’re trying to infiltrate under cover of the storm.
 
Do you know how to use these?”

“Yeah,” said Craig.
 
He pulled on the snug-fitting headphones, brought the small black microphone to his lips and reached down to push a button on the cord.
 
“Special Agent Kreident.”

“Agent Kreident, this LtCol Terrell, Ops Group commander in charge of the Auxiliary base security forces.
 
What is the meaning of your intrusion into restricted air space?
 
You are ordered to turn around immediately and wait for the proper authorities.”

“Colonel Terrell, I am unable to wait under these circumstances.”
 
He glanced at his watch yet again.
 
“You know why we’re approaching your base, and what is at stake.
 
I’m sure you must have been informed by Agent Goldfarb and Major Braden, the NEST commander.
 
We require your full and immediate cooperation — this is a matter of national security.”

“No,” Ursov said from behind him.
 
“It is a matter of
international
security.”

“Nobody told me anything about this until just a few minutes ago,” Terrell said.
 
“But I assure you our own base security is capable of dealing with the threat.
 
We’ll dispatch search teams as soon as possible.
 
I repeat, you are not authorized to enter this area.
 
Please turn around and return to your takeoff point.
 
It is unsafe to fly under these weather conditions.”

Letting his annoyance boil just beneath the surface of his words, Craig said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.
 
I have been working on circumventing the Eagle’s Claw for some time.
 
If you haven’t heard anything about the militia until just moments ago, you are not — I repeat
not
— capable of handling this yourself.”

Terrell didn’t back down.
 
“Agent Kreident, do not force me to take extreme action.
 
We have been authorized by presidential order to implement deadly measures to prevent compromising the security of Groom Lake.”

Craig swallowed hard and interrupted Terrell.
 
“Colonel, this helicopter is also bearing the head of the Russian disarmament delegation, General Ursov, who is himself here by presidential order — the Russian president and our own.”
 
Ursov looked over at him, his eyes wide, his lips curving in a grim smile.

“You’ve got a
Russian
on board?” Terrell growled over the headphones.
 
“What do you think you’re —”

“Colonel, may I remind you that your security has
already
been compromised?” Craig snapped.
 
“We have arrested a Staff Sergeant John Marlo from Nellis AFB, who was responsible for the explosion at the Laughlin railroad bridge yesterday.
 
The militia ringleader in possession of a diverted nuclear warhead is from NTS, the Device Assembly Facility Manager, Mike Waterloo.”

“Waterloo!
 
I just signed over a shipment of nuclear weapons to him two days ago —”

“He has been planning this operation for some time, sir, and he is on his way to you right now.
 
I think he plans to blow up your Area 51.”
 
He drew in a deep breath.
 
“You must let us through so we can stop him.”

Finally, Terrell came back on the line.
 
“Tell the pilot to land just north of the bombing range.
 
Do
not
proceed any further.
 
Do you understand?”
 
During a brief pause, only static came over the line.
 
“I’ll be joining you personally.
 
In the meantime, my people will check out this Marlo character.”

A dark gray military helicopter squatted on the far end of the isolated airstrip.
 
Military personnel wearing sand-camouflaged battle fatigues swarmed like ants around the craft, bearing Air Force issue M-16 automatic weapons.
 

Two additional helicopters hovered in the sky, ignoring the storm, waiting for the FBI craft to land.
 
Craig could make out a rack of missiles on the underside of each guardian chopper.
 
“Looks like they’re serious,” he said.

“Better than boy scouts,” said the pilot.
 
He reached to his right to adjust the rotors.
 
The staccato thumping sound changed pitch and became a deep roar, which grew louder as the sound reflected off the dry lakebed.
 
Small puddles had already begun to form in low spots.
 
The FBI helicopter flared out as they slowed their forward motion and started to descend.
 
Below, the security men stepped back to clear the landing pad.

“Okay, gentlemen.
 
You’re on your own from here.”
 
The pilot lowered the helicopter to the pad; it tilted to the right and bumped on one skid before settling down steady.
 
Once they had landed, the pilot reached up and started clicking switches.
 
“Thanks for a wonderful morning.”

Craig pushed open the cockpit door, and the wet wind whipped his tie around.
 
As he climbed out, a tall black man in sand-colored camouflage ducked his head and ran toward them.
 
Two military policemen stepped forward from outside the landing circle, keeping their automatic weapons leveled at the intruders.
 
Craig saw three more men run around to the side and signal the rest of the escort detail.

Craig flipped open his FBI badge and held it up as he shouted over the noise.
 
“I’m Special Agent Kreident.”

“General Ursov, Russian Strategic Rocket Forces.”
 
The squat, broad-shouldered man stood stoically at a half crouch by the cockpit door.
 
He held a hand to keep his wide brown-and-red hat from blowing away.

The black lieutenant colonel warily saluted the Russian officer.
 
“I’m LtCol Terrell, head of base security.
 
It is highly unusual to allow anyone access to Groom Lake without going through the proper security channels — especially a foreign national.”
 
Terrell looked upset, yet intimidating.
 
“I hope you appreciate how sensitive an installation this is.”

Craig took off his sunglasses.
 
The glare reflecting off the dry lake surface made him squint, but he had to look the Air Force officer in the eye.
 
“Colonel, if we don’t stop the militia, there won’t be much of an installation left for you to worry about.
 
You know that Mike Waterloo has the weapon access codes.
 
Your own Staff Sergeant Marlo could have provided the proper base information, IFFs, and the necessary maps.”

“Yes,” LtCol Terrell said.
 
He looked around the secure area, his men standing at alert, weapons ready.
 
“We checked your story about Sergeant Marlo and confirmed he’s one of ours.
 
He’s a security specialist, and if they’ve got an IFF, they can get around all our sensors, the radar — everything.”

Craig nodded, glad that he had finally gotten through to the man.
 
“We have to mount a visual search and do it fast, Colonel.
 
Even with your security forces airborne, we’re going to have one heck of a time finding them in all this wide-open space . . . unless we start the search at Dreamland.”

CHAPTER 43

Friday, October 24

7:12 A.M.

Dreamland

“The point of no return,” Mike Waterloo said, his voice hollow and frightened.
 
“Victory for the Eagle’s Claw, and a restoration of American ideals.”
 
He refused to look at the warhead in the back of the land rover, as if by ignoring it he could forget about his second thoughts.

With the timer on the nuclear warhead ticking down, he clutched his hands in front of him, looked over at Paige, then glanced away.

Paige had watched Mike work as distant helicopters flew high overhead, circling.
 
They must be hunting for us.
 
But the search teams didn’t know the land rovers had already penetrated Dreamland security and were hidden in the dry gully.
 
The bright morning sunlight would already be foiling infrared search equipment, and Mike’s stolen IFF had circumvented Groom Lake’s other electronic surveillance.

Mike turned uncertainly toward his murderous secretary.
 
Paige thought he was going to change his mind about the warhead, but instead he said, “Let’s get out of here, Sally.
 
All three of us can fit in the other rover and head overland.
 
I’m the only one who can stop the detonation now.
 
We have to move if we’re going to avoid the worst of the fallout.”

The numbers ticked down, like fading heartbeats.

“You’re wrong, Mike,” Sally said, reaching inside her loose flannel shirt to withdraw a small handgun.
 
“This method is more definite.”
 

With sharp cracks like splintering wood, Sally fired three times into Mike Waterloo’s chest, driving him back against the driver’s door of the first land rover.
 
His head slammed against the window.

Paige screamed and leaped for him.
 
Sally backed off, watching bemused.

As Paige held him, Uncle Mike’s mouth opened and closed in utter astonishment, touching his chest, seeing the blood, watching it run out of him as he slid to the ground.
 
His sad eyes grew round and wide with dismay.
 
Paige grabbed his sleeve, but could do nothing to help.

“Three times should be enough,” Sally said, her voice cold as she looked down at the handgun.
 
“Even with a small caliber.”

Paige knelt beside Uncle Mike in the wet dirt, grabbing his shoulder.
 
His final breath rattled in his throat, foaming with blood.
 
His eyes glazed over and became vacant.
 
The rain began to fall harder.

She hoped for him to form words, to say his goodbyes, to say some sort of farewell with his dying breath . . . but Sally had targeted accurately, twice through the sternum and once through a lung.
 
Mike Waterloo was dead as soon as he slumped to the ground.

In utter shock, with his blood warm and wet on her hands, Paige could not stanch the flow of memories in front of her mind: visions of Uncle Mike teaching her how to hold a fishing rod, showing her how to use a protractor and compass to draw perfect circles and geometric shapes.
 
She recalled Uncle Mike and her father sitting out on the porch in Livermore, chatting about the nuclear test program, about their work at the Lab, discussing politics and the Vietnam war.
 

It had been no more than conversation then, shooting the breeze.
 
But somewhere along the way it had turned into a deadly paranoia, a warped perception that had finally led to Uncle Mike setting this nuclear warhead . . . and to his death.

Paige stared at the blood on her fingers as the memories continued to sharpen.
 
She wondered if this might be the supposed phenomenon of her life flashing before her eyes.
 
Sally was sure to pull the trigger on her any second now.