Authors: Robert Doherty
The Rock (28 page)
Epilogue
Leesburg, Virginia
12 SEPTEMBER 1991, 1400 LOCAL
12 SEPTEMBER 1991, 1900 ZULU
Hawkins felt terribly disoriented for a few seconds. His hands twitched on the steering wheel and the pickup almost swerved off the road.
"Watch it, hon!" Mary exclaimed, her hand squeezing his arm.
Hawkins slammed on the brakes and pulled off the road onto the shoulder.
"What's wrong?" Mary asked, looking at him with concern.
Hawkins steadied himself against the back of the seat as he looked at his wife, alive and vibrant in the bright sunshine streaming through the windshield.
"Are you all right?"
Hawkins nodded. "I'm fine. Just fine." He fought back the confusion and forced a smile. "What's today's date?"
"Twenty-second June."
"What year?"
Mary playfully punched her husband on the shoulder. "Oh, come on, now. What are you trying to pull?"
"Please, Mary, just tell me the year?"
The smile faded from Mary's lips as she saw tears forming in her husband's eyes. "Nineteen ninety-one."
He turned off the engine and grabbed her with both arms, squeezing her tight to him. "Tell you what. Why don't we just sit here?" He wrapped her up tightly and waited, letting the minutes tick by until he knew it was safe and that the future was now much different.
Ayers Rock, Australia
6 JULY 2018, 0430 LOCAL
6 JULY 2018, 1900 ZULU
The world dissolved around Debra, as if everything were going through a portal and she were the lone point of stability. There was a flash of white and then, in a dizzying array of colors, everything came back into focus--except it wasn't what had been.
Ayers Rock loomed in the near distance, intact and spectacular in the early afternoon sun. The desert that had surrounded the monolith in her time was replaced by rolling green plains.
She was standing in the center of a large circle, carpeted in some sort of soft red fabric. A waist-high railing surrounded the circle and there were people gathered all around. As soon as they saw her, a tall, strong-looking man strode forward, his arms outstretched. "Welcome, Debra. I am Raynor Batson Volkers and I welcome you to your time." He pointed at a skimmer, parked at the side of the circle. "My parents are waiting to talk to you."
THE END
Also by Bob Mayer
Excerpt from the Best-Selling Series Area 51
Prologue
It came alive into darkness, wondering what had caused it to wake and aware at the same time that it was much weaker than ever before. The first priority was time. How long had it been asleep? The weakness gave the answer. Dividing half-lives of its power source, it calculated that almost fifty revolutions of this planet around the system star had passed since last it had been conscious.
The data from sensors was examined and found to be indeterminate. Whatever signal had tripped the alarms and kicked in the emergency power had to have been strong and vital but was now gone. Its sleep level had been so deep that all the recorded data showed was that there had been a signal. The nature of the signal, the source of the signal, both had been lost.
The Makers had not anticipated such a long time before resupply of the power source. It knew there was not much time left to its already very long life before the power supply slipped below the absolute minimum to keep it functioning even in hibernation.
A decision needed to be made. Should it divert power to sensors in case the signal were repeated, or should it go back to deep sleep, conserving power for time? But if the signal had been vital, and the sensor log said it was indeed so, then there might not be much time left.
The decision was made as quickly as the question had been posed. Power was allocated. The sensors were given more power to stay at a higher alert status in order to catch a repeat of the signal. A time limit of one planetary orbit about the system star was put on the sensors, at which time they would automatically awaken it and the decision could be reconsidered.
It went back to a lighter sleep, knowing that the decision to divert power to sensors for an orbit would cost it almost ten orbits of sleep when the power got lower, but it accepted that. That was its job.
Chapter One
Nashville, Tennessee
T-147 Hours
The grocery bag Kelly Reynolds was holding ripped open as she unlocked her mailbox and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke burst open on impact with the ground, sending cans everywhere. It had been that kind of day, she reflected as she gathered in the errant cans. She’d spent it interviewing local bar owners on Second Avenue for an article she was writing, and two of her five appointments had failed to show.
She stuffed the mail into the remnants of the bag and made her way to her apartment, dropping the entire mess on the table in her tiny kitchen. She filled a mug with water and pushed it into the microwave, setting the timer, then leaned back against the counter, giving herself the two minutes before the beeper sounded to relax. She studied her reflection in the kitchen window, which looked out onto a back alley in Nashville’s West End. Kelly was short, just over five feet, but big boned. She carried her weight well thanks to her morning routine of sit-ups and push-ups, but the combination of bulk and lack of height made her look like a compressed version of a person who should be four inches taller. Her hair was thick and brown, streaked with gray for the last ten years. Kelly had made the effort to keep the original color for a year or so, then had given up, accepting what time had dealt her after forty-two years on the planet.
The microwave dinged and she removed the mug and placed a tea bag into it, allowing the water to soak through. While she was waiting for that, she pulled out the mail, interested most in the thick brown envelope that she’d noticed as the cans had fallen. The return address made her smile: Phoenix, Arizona. It had to be from Johnny Simmons, an old friend from her graduate days at Vanderbilt. Actually, more than an old friend, Kelly reminded herself as her mind focused on those years a decade and a half ago.
Johnny had caught her on the rebound after her first husband had dumped her. She’d anchored her psyche in his emotional harbor for several months. When she’d finally felt like something of a whole human being again, she’d discovered that while she truly cared for Johnny, she didn’t have that special spark for him that she felt was necessary for an intimate relationship. Johnny had been very nice about it and they’d backed off, not speaking to each other for a while, then slowly reentered each other’s lives, testing the waters of friendship.
Kelly felt they had cemented that friendship after three years when Johnny had returned from a photojournalist assignment into El Salvador, where he had been documenting right-wing death squads. He’d holed up in her apartment for two months, decompressing from that ordeal. One or the other would call every month or so and they would catch up on their lives and know there was someone out there who cared. Last she’d heard, he was also working freelance, doing articles for whichever magazine was willing to cough up some money.
She slit the envelope open and was surprised to see a CD fall out along with several pages. She picked up the cover letter and read.
Hey Kelly,
I was trying to think of who to send a copy of this tape to, and you were the first name that popped into my head—especially after what happened to you eight years ago with that joker from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada.
I got a package in the mail last week that included a letter and a CD—no return address and postmarked Las Vegas. I think I know who sent it, though. He wouldn’t be hard to find. I want you to listen to it. So go over to your player now. Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, and take this letter with you. I mean NOW! I knew you were still standing there. Put the tape in, but don’t start it yet.
Kelly smiled as she walked over to her CD player precariously perched on a bookcase made up of cinder blocks and planks of wood. Johnny knew her and he had a good sense of humor, but even the humor couldn’t erase the instant bad feeling the Nellis Air Force Base reference had evoked. That Air Force intelligence officer had destroyed her career in filmmaking.
Pushing away the negative thoughts, Kelly put the CD in, then continued reading.
Okay. I’ll give you the same information that was in the letter I received with the CD. In fact, I’ll give you a copy of the letter that came with it. Next page, if you please.
Kelly turned the page to find a Xerox copy of a typewritten letter.
Mister Simmons,
In this package, you will find a recording I made on the evening of 23 October of this year. I was scanning the UHF wavelength. I often listen in to the pilots out of Nellis Air Force Base conducting operations. It was while doing just that, that I picked up the exchange you will listen to.
As near as I can tell, it is between the pilot of an F-15 (Victor Two Three), the control tower at Nellis, which uses the call sign Dreamland, and the flight commander of the F-15 pilot (Victor Six).
The pilot was taking part in the Red Flag, force on force, exercises at Nellis. These exercises are where the Air Force trains its fighter pilots in simulated combat. They have a whole squadron of Soviet-style aircraft at the Groom Lake complex on the Nellis Reservation to use in this training.
I’ll let you draw your own conclusions from the recording.
You want to talk to me, come to Vegas. Go to the “mailbox.” You don’t know what that is, ask around and you’ll find it. I’ll come to you. The Captain
Kelly turned the page. She smiled as she read.
Listen to the CD now.
Using her remote, she pushed play. The voices were surprisingly clear, which made Kelly wonder at the machinery used to make the recording. This wasn’t someone holding a recorder up to a radio speaker. There was a clear hiss of static at the end of each transmission and three distinct voices, as the letter had indicated.
“Victor Two Three, this is Dreamland Control. You are violating restricted airspace. You will immediately turn on a heading of one-eight-zero.
“Victor Two Three, this is Dreamland Control. Repeat, you are violating restricted airspace. Turn immediately on a heading of one-eight-zero. Over.”
A new voice cut in, this one with the muted roar of jet engines in the background.
“Victor Two Three, this is Victor Six. Comply immediately with Dreamland Control. Over.”
“Six, this is Two Three. I’ll be out of here in a flash. Over.”
“Negative, Two Three. This is Dreamland Control. You will comply with our instructions ASAP. Over.”
The commander came back on.
“They got you, Slick. Comply. You know we can’t mess with restricted airspace. Over.”
“This is Two Three, I will— What the hell! I’ve got— Geez, I don’t know what the hell it is. A bogey at three o’clock and climbing. I’ve never—”
The quiet, implacable voice of Dreamland Control cut in.
“Two Three, you will immediately cease transmitting, turn on a heading of one-eight-zero and descend for a landing at Groom Lake. That is a direct order. Over.”
The pilot of the F-15 was growing more agitated.
“
This thing has no wings! And, man, it’s moving. It’s closing on me. We got a live one! I’m—”
There was a hiss of static.
“—was close!” Static. “On top of—” Static, “—my God! It’s turning—” Static. “Jesus! It’s—” The voice was suddenly cut off.
‘“Two Three! This is Six. What’s your status, Slick? Over.”
Silence.
“Break, Dreamland Control, this is Victor Six. Do you have Two Three on scope? Over.”
