Deep Fire Rising m-6 Read online

  The scene when the cage doors opened was worse than the most gruesome image of Hades. The walls, ceiling and floor smoldered with the residual energy of the fire’s overflash. Anything combustible was a searing pocket of flame — men mostly, horrible twisted shapes of char. Almost worse was that some of them were still alive. The rescuers used portable fire extinguishers to shoot out jets of foam to smother the flames. As the sound of the fires waned, the pitiable cries of the dying grew.

  The first explosion had exhausted most of the mine’s supply of air, but even with the industrial fans on the surface shut down, it was drawing in more like a flue. The blaze would reignite the swirling eddies of coal dust as soon as enough oxygen had been drawn down. Mercer understood that he and his team had minutes. They dragged the wounded into the skip hoist. Two of the rescue workers wanted to stay down and look for others, but Mercer wouldn’t let them. The mine was too hot. The risks they were taking already bordered on suicidal.

  The second explosion, as violent as the first, rocked the hoist when they were fifty feet from the surface. Without the protection of their retardant suits, the overpressure wave would have scalded them to death. They used their bodies as human shields to protect their fallen comrades until the hoist reached the top. Scrambling amid a hellish torrent of smoke, they carried the seven men they’d saved clear of the heat. A triage station had already been established. Topside workers carried the wounded to the building as Mercer and his men stripped out of their scorched suits. By the time Mercer staggered into the first-aid station, only one of the men was still alive, and even he didn’t survive long enough to make it to the nearest hospital. The mine continued to burn for twelve days. After the bodies were recovered, level eleven had never reopened.

  Of all the mine rescues Mercer had been involved with, that one struck the deepest in his mind. Not because it was the first, but because it was the only one where he hadn’t saved at least one miner who survived long enough to be found.

  Mercer shook his head as if to dislodge the images. His memory was so full of such horrors that he tried not to revisit them. He blamed his uncharacteristic dark mood on the fact that this whole situation had him on edge. The unknown was perhaps his most feared adversary. As soon as he knew what was happening, the mood would pass.

  A little over four hours later, the engine’s steady drone changed in pitch. They were beginning their descent. Guessing the aircraft cruised at five hundred knots, Mercer estimated they’d covered about twenty-four hundred miles. But not knowing their direction could put them anywhere in a circle large enough to touch on South America, the Azore Islands, the tip of Greenland and as far west as…

  It couldn’t be.

  Maybe it could. There was one easy way to find out. Sykes wasn’t exactly asleep, but he hadn’t turned the page of the book he was reading for the past fifteen minutes. Before his escort became aware the plane had left her cruising altitude, Mercer inched open his window shade. The darkness outside the aircraft was absolute. They could be over the Atlantic as far as he knew, but he doubted that very much.

  The bright moon played against the underside of the clouds above the Gulfstream, and when Mercer pressed a hand to the Plexiglas to cut the glare from the cabin lights, he caught the dark reflection of mountains running off to the horizon.

  The plane made a gentle turn and a riot of light erupted from the ground. It was a garish display, an unworldly sight like no place on earth. It was Las Vegas.

  And Mercer knew of only one place near Vegas that was secret enough to warrant the level of security he’d endured. It was a remote section of desert euphemistically called Dreamland, but known more widely by its designation on an old Department of Energy map.

  Area 51.

  AREA 51, NEVADA

  Knowing his destination only deepened the mystery surrounding Mercer’s clandestine trip.

  What little he knew about Area 51 came from cable television. The secluded facility, along with Nellis Air Force Base and the Yucca Flats Atomic Test Range, encompassed a territory larger than Switzerland and had first been used for flight testing the U-2 spy plane in the 1950s. Since then most of America’s premier aircraft had gone through flight trials at Groom Lake, the massive dry lake bed on which Area 51 was built. The SR-71, the F-117 Stealth, the B-2 Spirit bomber and the F-22 Raptor had all first taken flight here. Rumors persisted that they were currently developing a hypersonic spy plane to replace the Blackbird, called Aurora, and that it was stationed at Dreamland. While the military continued to deny the existence of the base, these were the most acknowledged facts about Area 51.

  Mostly, however, the legend of Area 51 grew from the myth that a flying saucer, which reportedly crashed in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947, had been transported to this isolated desert facility for study. Conspiracy theorists took the government’s denial as proof it really had happened. They strung together reports of strange lights, the testimony of charlatans and crackpots, and their own paranoia into a fantastic story of reverse engineering on the ships and bizarre medical experiments on the crew.

  Mercer didn’t believe a word of it. Area 51 was simply the place where the military developed our next-generation aircraft in secret. Disregarding the absurdity that an advanced civilization was clumsy enough to crash on earth, the idea that the military could keep such a secret for half a century defied belief.

  The one part of the story he did believe, however, was that the security forces at Area 51 were authorized to use deadly force. He had no idea if this directive had ever been needed, but he’d heard of cases where backpackers and aircraft watchers were escorted from the region by hard-looking well-armed men they’d derisively dubbed Cammo Dudes.

  The window shade snapped closed like a guillotine. When Mercer looked up, Captain Sykes’s eyes held equal measures of displeasure and resignation. “You shouldn’t have done that, Doc.”

  Before Sykes could say anything further, the copilot emerged from the cockpit. “Captain, a word.”

  Sykes joined him at the front of the cabin and listened for several seconds. He nodded once then returned to his seat. The copilot closed the cockpit door behind himself.

  Before sitting, Sykes reached into an overhead storage bin. He retrieved a helmet and tossed it onto Mercer’s lap. It resembled a welder’s helmet, but the face shield was completely opaque. With it on Mercer wouldn’t be able to see a thing. “You’re going to have to put that on when we land,” Sykes said.

  “Captain, I know where we are. Is this really necessary?”

  “If you pretend you don’t know where we’re landing, I don’t have to pretend to fill out a ton of useless reports. Call it a favor. Seems we’ve hit a bit of head-wind on our way here. Usually we’d land and you’d be transferred to a blacked-out van. But we’ve missed our schedule, and in about ten minutes a Russian spy satellite will be passing overhead. We’re going to be landing normally, but we’ll taxi straight into one of the hangars.” Sykes’s voice took on an earnest tone. “Security at this installation is the tightest in the world, Doc. Standing orders are to shoot first and don’t worry about the questions afterward. You reading me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m telling you this to save your life. When we get off this aircraft, I’ll guide you along. Do not remove that helmet. You do and they won’t just pull a gun on you. They’ll drop you where you stand.”

  Mercer let a sarcastic retort die on his lips. Sykes was telling him this for his own good. He twisted the clumsy-looking helmet on his lap. “Just tell me when to put it on.”

  The plane continued its descent, leaving the glare of Las Vegas a hundred miles astern, and made its approach on the longest runway in the world, a strip of reinforced concrete more than twice the length needed to accommodate the space shuttle. The Gulfstream touched down more gently than any commercial flight Mercer had ever been on. In a race to hide from the spy satellite coming over the horizon, her engines barely seemed to slow as the pilot looped them across the apro
n for a distant hangar.

  The sudden deceleration when the aircraft reached its destination chirped rubber from the tires and jolted Mercer in his seat. The executive jet seesawed on its landing gear as the engines wound to silence.

  “Okay, Doc, might as well get that face shield on,” Sykes suggested. “I’ll take care of your bag.”

  Mercer slipped into his jacket and settled the helmet on his head. His world went gray. The lack of vision was momentarily disorienting. Not until he tipped his head back could he see the tops of his shoes and the plush carpet. “Feels like we’re going to play a bizarre game of pin the tail on the donkey.”

  Sykes laughed. “So long as the guards don’t play pin the nine millimeter on the geologist. Okay, come toward my voice. There’s enough headroom so you don’t need to duck. That’s good. All right, turn here. You’re almost at the boarding stairs. There’s four of them to the tarmac.”

  Sensing a change in lighting as he neared the exit, Mercer paused, gave Sykes’s warning a half second’s consideration, and pulled the helmet from his head.

  What he saw took his breath away.

  The hangar was several orders of magnitude larger than the one at Andrews, lit with powerful lights recessed in the ceiling ten stories over his head. The huge doors, easily large enough to accommodate a commercial airliner, had already closed behind the Gulfstream. It wasn’t the building’s multiacre dimensions that caught his attention; they barely made an impression. Nor did the matte-black snout of a B-2 Stealth bomber as it loomed like some nightmare creature, its knife-edge silhouette interrupted only by the integrated engine nacelles and her two-man cockpit.

  What drew his attention was the saucer-shaped aircraft hovering a short distance to his left. The craft floated soundlessly a couple feet above the concrete floor. It was just there, impossibly hanging in space. The saucer was roughly thirty feet in diameter and maybe eight feet tall, composed of a silvery material with a sleek texture.

  Then Mercer did a double take and burst out laughing even as Sykes came bundling up behind him. What he thought was alien writing on the side of the aircraft was actually a very stylized font that spelled out ACME SAUCER COMPANY. The hovering disc was an elaborate model, some technician’s idea of a joke. The cables suspending it from the ceiling became apparent when Mercer looked for them.

  There was no sign of the armed security Sykes had warned him about.

  Who was waiting there made Mercer do his second double take. Ira Lasko stood off to the side with a woman in a white lab coat. They were beyond easy conversation range, so Mercer turned his head to address Sykes. “Thought you’d never met Ira.”

  Sykes shrugged. “Hell, I’m not really your escort either. Admiral Lasko sent me to D.C. yesterday and I just happened to catch this flight back.”

  Mercer descended the boarding stairs and crossed the fifty feet to Ira. The deputy national security advisor was in his mid-fifties, painfully thin, but with unbelievable strength for his size. He kept his head completely shaved in a tactical retreat from pattern baldness. It leant him a determined air that augmented his pugnacious jaw and penetrating mind. His eyes were a watchful brown under silvering brows. He wasn’t particularly tall at five feet seven, but his authority was not in doubt.

  Ira wore khaki pants, a matching shirt and a Navy bomber jacket. The temperature in the hangar barely reached fifty degrees. Despite its desert location, Area 51 lay nearly five thousand feet above sea level.

  “I told the security chief that you wouldn’t wear the helmet if the plane had to park in here.” Ira waved toward the far side of the hangar, where futuristic-looking shapes — aircraft, no doubt — were hidden under large tarps. “That’s why the really interesting stuff was covered up.”

  Mercer’s anger at the tactics to get him here had been replaced by a sense of awe. He was being granted a peek at the innermost sanctum of government secrecy. If the conspiracy nuts were correct, things went on here even the president didn’t know about. Still, he wouldn’t give Ira the satisfaction of showing that the surroundings had shaken his composure. He took Ira’s proffered hand. “Are you going to explain why you felt it necessary to have me shanghaied? A phone call and a plane ticket to Vegas would have sufficed.”

  “I’ve been calling your place for two days,” Ira replied. “I didn’t leave a message because Harry kept answering the phone.” He and Harry had swapped war stories on several occasions. Ira had spent his early naval career aboard submarines, and Harry had spent his dodging them in the Pacific. “You think if I let on that you were coming here that he wouldn’t be on the next plane out?”

  Mercer couldn’t deny that possibility, no, inevitability. “Maybe he should be out here. Don’t forget, he saved my ass in Panama last fall.”

  “And ran up about six grand in gambling debts on your credit card.”

  Mercer’s smile turned to a frown. Ten thousand was closer to the truth.

  “Besides,” Ira continued, “you won’t need him watching your back. You’re out here for a straightforward job. Nothing fancy, but something you’re eminently qualified for. A job that we consider vital.”

  Mercer cocked an eyebrow. “We?”

  Ira turned to the woman standing at his side. “This is Dr. Briana Marie. She’s heading the project. She’ll explain everything.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” Mercer shook the petite brunette’s hand. She wore no makeup; her girl-next-door appeal didn’t need any. He laughed to himself when she used her left hand to unnecessarily wipe at the lapel of her lab coat. Her wedding ring flashed in the bright light. Then he considered the situation from her perspective. There were probably a hundred men for every woman here and an early declaration of her marital status must have become habit. “Are you an M.D.?”

  “Nuclear physicist,” she replied in a remarkably deep voice.

  The answer surprised Mercer. He looked to Ira.

  “A lot more than testing aircraft takes place here,” the admiral explained. “All of it under complete compartmentalization. Hell, I only know a few things under development and I’m on the president’s staff.”

  “A case of the right hand not knowing what the left is up to?” Mercer joked.

  “The personnel here don’t even know there is a left hand,” Dr. Marie deadpanned.

  “Even with your top secret clearance,” Ira went on, “I had to pull some strings so you’d know the details of this operation. The men you’ll be working with have no idea.”

  Mercer got a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He’d spent enough time with Ira to fairly judge his moods. The stress lines around his eyes and on his forehead hadn’t been there the last time they’d shared a drink at Tiny’s. And his pallor went far beyond a normal end-of-winter hue. “What’s going on here, Ira?”

  Briana Marie answered, “There’s been an accident. People are dead. We need you to carry on with their work.”

  The whistle of wind beyond the hangar doors sounded like a mourning dirge.

  Mercer learned he’d be spending the night at the main complex. Tomorrow he’d be taken to an even more secret base on the Area 51 grounds, a place Ira called DS-Two. Ira asked Captain Sykes to show him to his billet in a building behind the hangar. A metal roof covered the walkway, presumably to hide foot traffic from orbital observation.

  The room was like any hotel Mercer had ever stayed at, only the door locked from the outside. To leave, he had to buzz a uniformed staffer seated in the barracks’ reception area. He took his first shower since Canada, thirty-six hours and roughly five thousand air miles ago. Returning west had fortunately nullified his jet lag. As the scalding water sluiced across his body, he thought of the old joke about a harried tourist on a package tour. “Oh, it’s Monday. Then this must be Rome.”

  By the time he’d toweled dry, he’d figured out what Dr. Marie was working on. With Yucca Mountain only a short distance away, the answer was obvious.

  Sykes was waiting for him at th
e reception desk when the corporal on duty allowed him out of his room.

  “Is this your regular posting?” Mercer asked as Sykes led him across the facility.

  “Nah,” Sykes drawled. “Me and my team have been here a month.”

  “Team?”

  “Delta Force.” This was the army’s elite hostage rescue team. “If you don’t mind a little free advice, Doc, I’ve learned you get along better out here if you don’t ask too many questions.”

  Despite their awkward introduction, Mercer found he liked the soldier. He’d already realized his slow demeanor wasn’t laziness. Rather, Sykes possessed a cool deliberation, as if he knew when he woke each morning every action his body would take and every word he’d need to speak. It was only a matter of doling them out at the right time.

  “And let me guess,” Mercer commented, “one question is too many?”

  Sykes grinned. “You’re catching on.”

  Sykes led him to a nondescript building, a slab-sided office cube with the architectural flair of a Soviet apartment house. Most of the base had been built in the 1960s and substantially expanded in the ’80s, yet it retained the Cold War sterility of its roots. The buildings Mercer could see were laid out in geometric blocs. There was no ornamentation, no landscaping and certainly no streetlights.

  Nor, he noticed, were there any people. It was like walking around a postapocalyptic ghost town.

  “Kinda creepy, huh?” Sykes seemed to be reading Mercer’s thoughts as they reached the building’s door. “I guess the isolation really gets to some of the people out here, having to live under cover all the time. A couple days after I got here, a bunch of the younger soldiers were given permission to put on a show for a Chinese spy satellite.”

  “What’d they do?” Mercer followed Sykes to a flight of stairs. The building’s interior was as drab as the outside.