Brad never was one to wake up at the crack of dawn. As
a matter of fact, the only times he'd seen the sun rise, was
when he was still up from the night before. Even with his
busy schedule, he let the morning slip past. If he'd been
one to make excuses, he might have said that he was waiting
to miss the rush hour. The truth was, he figured that if
the aliens had been hidden for forty years, another few
hours wouldn't hurt.
He didn't actually have a plan, just a few ideas.
Gatewood had said the aliens were at the bombing range near
Alamo. Mrs. Gatewood had confirmed this by saying that the
helicopter flew to the north. Brad's map showed Alamo to be
about one hundred miles north at the top edge of the Nellis
AFB bombing range. Along the east side ran Highway 93 and
to the west was an area innocently labeled Nevada Test Site.
Brad decided his best course of action would be to follow
the highway to Alamo, and look for leads on the way.
When he had spoken to Jennings two days ago, Jennings
had said something about Groom Lake, but Brad hadn't been
able to find it on his map. At first he wondered if it was
a code name for a secret base, but dismissed the theory
since Jennings was just repeating something he'd read. He
also wondered if it was truly a lake, because most of the
land he'd crossed from LA to Las Vegas was dessert. Hoping
not to waste any more time than necessary, he headed for the
lobby of the hotel to ask the desk clerk.
The person behind the desk was a man a few years
younger than Brad wearing street clothes as opposed to one
of the gimmicky costumes common to the hotels of The Strip.
Brad walked to the counter, set down his suitcase, and
tossed his room key to the clerk.
"Was everything alright?" asked the clerk mechanically.
"Yeah, but I got a question. Do you know where Groom
Lake is?"
The clerk became so confused by Brad's inquiry that he
temporarily lost track of reality. The man looked at the
ceiling, rubbed his chin, and scratched his head. "What...
Is that a lake or something."
Normally Brad would have started his sentence with a
statement like "No shit, Sherlock," but considering Brad
wasn't sure if it was a lake or not, he just answered
affirmatively. The clerk was once again dumbfounded, as he
racked his miniscule brain for an answer. Brad knew at this
point any answer the man gave would either be wrong or an
out-and-out lie.
Luckily, at that moment the hotel manager walked past.
"Mr. Barkly! You ever heard of Groom Lake?"
"Of course I have," stated the middle-aged gentleman.
"Why do you ask?"
Rather than give the clerk a chance to confuse the
matter, Brad immediately piped in. "Could you tell me how
to get there?"
"Yeah, I could... but you don't want to go there."
Brad was stunned by the unexpected answer. "Why not?"
"It's in the middle of the Nevada Test Site-- its all
radioactive."
"Radioactive? I saw that Test Site on the map, but
what do they test?"
"They don't test anything there, now, but thirty years
ago, they set off atom bombs out there. Believe me, you
don't want to go to Groom Lake."
"Are there Air Force Guards out there?"
"Not at Groom Lake; it's run by the Atomic Energy
Commission. There are guards at the bomb range, but not at
Groom Lake."
"Why not?"
"No need. Who'd be fool enough to go into the middle
of an atomic test area. There isn't anything out there."
Brad thanked the man, paid the bill, and loaded his
car. The manager hadn't given him directions, but he had
given Brad some very useful information. First, he said
Groom Lake was in the Nevada Test Site, which was adjacent
to the bomb range. Jennings had heard that the aliens were
there, which meant that his source had been only slightly
mistaken. The second point was that if Groom Lake was an
atomic test site, then there would be lingering radiation.
The aliens might not be effected, but long term exposure
could cause cancer or leukemia to human guards. The
conversation had eliminated it as a possible location, but
had provided another ounce of proof for Brad's story.
Within moments Brad was on Interstate 15, heading out
of town. He had estimated it to be about a hundred miles to
Alamo, but was glad to find that most of it was on a
desolate stretch of Highway 93 that ran through a shallow
valley. He set the cruise control on seventy-five, slipped
a tape in the tape deck, and relaxed as the Firebird
virtually drove itself.
Occasionally, Brad would look off to the west in hopes
of catching a glimpse of the bombing range. He'd never seen
one before, so he didn't know what he was looking for, but
he figured should be covered with bomb craters.
Unfortunately, the entire west side of the valley was lined
by a range of mountains that made it impossible to see
anything. Even if the Air Force had been dropping bombs at
that particular moment, there was no way Brad could have
known. He couldn't help but think how convenient that was
for them.
After an hour of driving, the mountain range stopped,
and Brad slowed the car. The highway had left the valley
and was slowly climbing toward the town of Alamo, another
twenty-five miles ahead. A moment later, he was surprised
to find a road leading to the southwest. There was no gate,
no fence, no sign, but the road went to the southwest--
straight into the bomb range.
Brad pulled the car to the side of the road as he
checked his map. There was no road shown. He could see for
several miles ahead. There was nothing there. He wondered
what the consequences could be if he were caught, but
decided he could always claim stupidity. He shifted into
first gear and slowly stared down the road.
The road was barely a road at all, and it was apparent
that no one had been attempting to maintain it. Because the
area was dessert with very little rainfall and few freezes,
the road had fared better than one might in northern
California where erosion and undergrowth would destroy it in
a matter of years. It was mostly intact, but the potholes
and buckles that had formed in the pavement made driving
slow and treacherous. To make matters worst, Pontiac had
never intended for the Firebird to be an all terrain
vehicle.
About five miles and ten minutes later, Brad finally
found what he had expected to see earlier. Across the road
was a crude gate made of a four inch steel pipe anchored on
a post at one end, and resting on a second post on the
other. Attached halfway down the length of the gate was an
old and partially rusted sign that warned that beyond this
point was the Nellis Air Force Base Bombing Range. It went
on to explain that the area was littered with unexploded
munitions, patrolled by armed guards, and trespassing was a
violation of federal law.
He stepped out of the car and studied the gate. It was
hinged on the end by a pin that allowed it to pivot open,
but there was no lock. Brad couldn't help but think that
the Air Force obviously wasn't too worried about trespassers
if they didn't lock their gate. He looked beyond the gate
at the road ahead and saw that it disappeared over a ridge a
mile or so ahead. Again he considered the consequences of
being caught after lying to Major Dandridge about his
identity.
He studied the gate once again; he looked and the road
again. The Air Force could have anything hidden behind that
ridge. The aliens could be only a few miles away. If he
were caught, he might go to prison. Then again, he might be
killed, his car blown up, and all the world would ever know
was that he hit an unexploded bomb on the road.
A few drops of sweat formed on his forehead as he
considered the situation. It wasn't perspiration from the
heat, but nervous tension that was building in him. He
grabbed the free end of the gate, lifted it from its rest,
and pushed it open. He was taking a risk, but he felt the
stakes were high enough to make it worth the gamble.
He edged the car forward and slowly began to pick up
speed. A mile down the road, he topped the ridge, and found
a wide open plane before him. Scattered around the dessert
were several targets, some looking like wood frame houses,
others like old tanks. As he continued through the bomb
range, he began to see the craters he'd expected, but
nothing that seemed to be a compound.
Slowly and cautiously, Brad guided the Firebird down
the road, and scanned the area for any signs of life or
activity. It was at that moment that he was unfortunate
enough to find it. The distance was hard to measure, but on
the road in front of him was something that was causing a
plume of sand and dust to lift from the earth. He slowed
the car to a crawl and strained to see across the shimmering
landscape. The engine had fallen to an idle when the shape
of the source become apparent.
For a moment Brad's heart stopped when he realized that
it was some type of vehicle approaching him. He remembered
the signs warning that the area was patrolled by armed
guards, and his chest began to pound. When he looked at the
vehicle again he was astonished to see that it wasn't a jeep
that was heading for him... It wasn't a truck... It was an
armored car complete with machine gun turret.
In sheer desperation, Brad threw the stick shift into
first gear and stepped on the gas. The wheels squealed, he
spun the wheel hard to the left, and the Firebird started a
one hundred eighty degree spin. In the rearview mirror,
Brad could see the Air Force armored car approaching fast,
and he prayed he could outrun it.
But, alas, this was not Brad's lucky day.
Halfway through his one-eighty, the rear wheels left
the pavement, and sank in the sand. Brad screamed at the
top of his lungs and looked in the mirror once again. The
armored car was close enough that Brad could see a figure
standing in the hatch on top of the vehicle. He slammed the
car in reverse, rocked the car backwards, threw it into
first again, and popped the clutch.
The wheels caught the edge of the road and shot Brad
out of the rut like a bullet from a gun. The armored car
was within two hundred yards and gaining fast. Adrenalin
surged through Brad's bloodstream, and sweat ran from his
forehead as he shifted through the gears. He looked at the
speedometer and saw the needle creeping past fifty. He
looked into the rearview mirror just in time to see a cloud
of thick black smoke belch from the armored car's diesel
engine. He knew the cloud meant they were trying to
accelerate.
As the speedometer registered sixty, the car began to
shake wildly with every bump it hit. The ridge was only a
few hundred yards in front of him and the gate maybe a mile
past it. Brad figured he had a chance, as long as the Air
Force wouldn't chase him past the gate, and didn't try to
shoot him. He looked in the rearview mirror, and his hopes
began to fade when he saw the armored car closing the gap
between them.
With a deep breath and no regard for his present speed,
Brad downshifted into third gear, pressed the gas pedal to
the floor, and popped the clutch. The engine screamed in
protest and the tachometer swung to the far end of the
yellow. Every one of the car's one hundred thirty-five
horses poured onto the road and Brad wished he'd had the
extra five grand to buy the V-8 Trans Am. As the tach's
needle flirted with the red line, he put the shifter back in
four, and topped the ridge at eighty, leaving the armored
car in a wake of dust and sand.
A triumphant yell filled the interior of the Firebird
for a fleeting moment, until Brad noticed another cloud to
his left. A second armored car was rapidly approaching from
the north, cutting cross-country in hopes of heading him off
at the gate. He only had half a mile-- less than twenty-
five seconds until he was home free.
Without warning the road ahead of Brad erupted into a
dozen geysers of dust, and he instinctively knew the second
armored car was firing at him. He didn't think they'd
missed, they were probably just firing warning shots, but
Brad wasn't about to stop. If you count trespassing as his
first mistake, not stopping was his second.
Ahead of him, Brad saw that in the few minutes he'd
been in the bomb range, someone had closed the gate. His
mind reconstructed the event with lightning speed. He'd
passed through the gate, the guards who were shooting at him
found the open gate and called the other armored car to join
them. If he'd had time, he might have wondered why they had
left the gate. Unfortunately his twenty-five seconds was
almost up and he was heading straight for a closed gate at
eighty miles an hour.
Normally this wouldn't have been a big deal. If Brad
had been in a regular car, he could have just crashed
through without any trouble. The problem was that his
Firebird sat so low that the gate would have cleared the
hood and hit the windshield. If the windshield didn't throw
it open, then Brad's face would be the next thing to shatter
(or splatter, as the case might be).
No time to think, no time to worry; Brad nudged the
wheel to the left and slammed into the gate's support post.
The impact threw the car into a spin, Brad cut the wheel,
overcompensated, and spun the car to the right. His teeth
still rattling from the crash, he fought sand beneath the
wheels for control, and wrestled the car back on the road.
The armored car stopped at what was left of the gate, and
Brad continued to barrel down the deserted road.
When he hit the highway, Brad turned back toward Las
Vegas, and hoped the Air Force didn't have a direct line to
the Highway Patrol. He didn't stop to look at the damage,
but considering he'd left most of his right wheel well and
all of his car's nose-cap on the road behind him, he figured
it to be pretty bad. He didn't know where he'd find the
money to cover his deductible and pay for the damage (the
paper certainly wouldn't pay it), but his worry was pre-
empted by his joy of not being caught.
On the trip back to Vegas, he finally had time to
wonder why the other armored car hadn't stayed at the gate.
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