SECTOR 64: Ambush (11 page)

While the United Galactic Federation contained thousands of species, there had been little blending of populations. With a few notable exceptions near the galactic core, the denizens of most colonized worlds consisted of one species. The radically differing atmospheric and gravitational standards rendered cross-species cohabitation a near impossibility. The subsequent genetic polarization carried across many aspects of the galactic community. To simplify environmental systems and to prevent proliferation of weapon technologies, the Argonians maintained sole control of the Galactic Defense Force. While they often worked hand in hand with other races, only Argonians staffed the fleet's warships. Superficially, it sounded xenophobic and had been called as much by the Zoxyth. However, over the millennia, the GDF had earned a reputation as a force for good. Whether providing disaster relief or coming to the rescue of an embattled ally, the Argonians of the Galactic Defense Forces were goodwill ambassadors and the glue that held the United Galactic Federation together.

Following the cessation of hostilities, great convoys of returning refugees now streamed back into the border worlds. The mission of the GDF had shifted from offensive to defensive as they provided protection to the various species reentering the zone.

Now there was a problem.

Admiral Tekamah closed his eyes for a moment. Sitting back in his chair, he reactivated his EON and accessed the disturbing report again. It was from a unit assigned to escort duty.

Prior to linking up with that military escort, and still well outside the border region, a fleet of Argonian refugees preparing to return to their liberated colony world had come under attack. The distress call cutoff midstream, but not before reporting a sole Zoxyth dreadnought.

The escort squadron had leapt into parallel-space in a mad rush to come to their defense. What they found at the last reported position of the refugee fleet sent a chill down Tekamah's spine.

In the hour it took the squadron to close the four-light-year gap, the dreadnought blasted and burned all the ships of the Argonian convoy and made its escape. In spite of the fleet's extensive destruction, there should have been some survivors or bodies, or something other than what they'd found … or not found, in this case.

Every ship-remnant and cinder they'd searched was devoid of any Argonians, alive or dead.

The late spring sun beat down on the Nevada tarmac like a never-ending nuclear detonation. In spite of the lengthening late afternoon shadows, the high-desert sky retained the deep blue hue of a midsummer day. The surrounding mountains would look at home on the moon. Their rocky peaks scratched roughly at the lighter edges of the azure overarching atmospheric ocean. Forming an unbroken halo, they guarded Area Fifty-One's secret Groom Lake Air Force Base from prying eyes.

Chasing their elongated ambling shadows, two Air Force officers walked in front of a long row of hangars. In the Base's ghost town silence, their footsteps echoed off the metal sides of the large buildings. As they progressed east, toward an expansive aircraft ramp, each hangar appeared to be older than the previous.

"I always thought when I became a super-secret special agent I wouldn't have to sweat anymore," Jake said to Vic.

"Yeah," Vic said. Casting a resigned glance at the blazing sun, he fanned the zipper-lined lapel of his flightsuit. "It's like stepping into an oven."

They had just finished their first week at the officially nonexistent military base. The security briefings and safety classes had been exhausting and mind numbing. The secretive and compartmentalized policies of the facility prohibited discussion of their assignments or job duties with their instructors, a fact driven home by ubiquitous signage and incessant aural security reminders blasted from an overhead public address system. As far as Jake knew, the instructors had no idea of the not-so-alien aliens or any of the myriad unknowable projects currently operating at the base.

Wiping a fresh bead of sweat from his brow, Jake scanned the expansive concrete plain. From here, it appeared they were walking through an abandoned airfield. He knew most activities took place in a vast underground web. Their briefings had been in a small part of that network. One of the orientations had alluded to an intricate maze of tunnels, connecting various facilities. This trek to the flight line was their first foray beyond the administrative area.

"Those were vague instructions," Victor said, breaking Jake's thoughts.

"I know. Considering how anal they are here, being told to walk to the end of the hangars and wait seems, I don't know, loose, I guess."

"I know, I keep waiting to see security police running at us, guns drawn," Vic said. His hand pointed at Jake's head pistol style.

Jake winced as the gesture reminded him of the events that followed their disastrous UFO encounter.

"Oops, sorry." Vic lowered his arm and grinned. "I had it rough too, you know."

"Yeah right. You get gently floated from your fighter. I get yanked down and tossed unceremoniously face-first onto the tarmac. You're taken to a nice, plush facility, and fed tea and crumpets. I'm taken to an interrogation-room and berated for twelve hours, and I'm the one left feeling guilty," he said through a sardonic grin.

Vic looked dejected. "Sorry."

"Dude, I'm just messing with you." Jake punched him in the arm. "Time to put on your big-girl panties, Lieutenant."

Rubbing his shoulder, Vic smiled self-consciously.

Stopping next to the last hangar, they looked around, unsure of what to do next. When they had received their instruction, Vic had asked, "Wait for what?" The instructor merely shrugged his shoulders. They'd encountered the gesture so many times the two officers called it the Area Fifty-One salute.

"These hangars look like they've been here since the—" Vic stopped as a black Hummer zipped from behind the building.

"Well, I'll be a son of a…" Jake said, through a startled chuckle.

The vehicle slid to a stop in front of them. "Are you ladies just gonna stand there all slack-jawed?" Captain Richard Allison asked.

"I was wondering when your lame ass would show up," Jake said.

"Go to Hell," Richard said through a grin.

Wiping more sweat from his brow, Jake glanced at the sun hovering over the western mountains. "I think we're already there."

Richard gestured to the sweat stains adorning his own flightsuit. "I hear you, brother."

"It's good to see you," Vic said as he and Jake climbed into the Hummer. "We've seen nothing but admin types all week."

"Well, it's time for that to change. I'm here to show you the meat and potatoes of the operation." While speaking, he pulled onto the flight line and headed toward the runway complex.

Jake studied the maze of tarmac, taxiways, and concrete runways. "I know more about the layout of this place from what I saw on Google Earth than I learned from all the briefings we suffered through." He pointed ahead. "For instance, from what I saw in their imagery, I know those are some of the longest runways in the world, a few extending well into Groom Lake's dry bed to the north."

As Richard pulled onto a ramp linked to one of the main runways, Victor pointed at a jet-blast shield in front of a low flat hill. "There's a familiar structure."

"Yep," Jake agreed. "There's been at least one at every Air Force Base I've been to." Positioned behind an area designated as a jet ground-run area, the blast-shield worked like giant louvers. The curved overlapping slats diverted a jet's exhaust away from the ground.

"Not like this one," Richard said turning south, toward the structure.

Jake studied the metal panels. Airport planners usually positioned them in front of buildings or roads. However, this shield was cut into the side of rising terrain.

As they approached, the shield began to lift and fold horizontally, revealing a large hangar hidden in the mound.

"That's not a natural hill," Jake said. "It looks like the hangar was built and then covered in earth."

"Bet you didn't see that on Google Earth," Richard said through a smile. As he pulled the Hummer through the opening, the blast-shield-clad hangar doors lowered.

Within, Jake discovered it lacked a few of the necessary fixtures to qualify it as a hangar. No hoists, offices, or ancillary equipment adorned its well-lit interior. They were in a huge metal box, big as a hangar, just not equipped as such.

Just as Jake and Vic opened their mouths to comment, a deep clunking noise sprang from the box's metallic walls
.
A tremor shook the Hummer.

After a few moments, Jake sensed vertical motion. "We're descending?"

Richard nodded. "The upper levels we're passing through are used for projects too sensitive to use the above-ground hangars. The lower we go, the more sensitive the project."

"Guess we're heading to the bottom," Jake said.

"As far as I know, but as far as the crews in the floors above us know, they are the lowest and most secret project here." Pointing to the wall ahead, Richard continued. "Each level has its own blast and soundproof door separating it from the lift. In addition to their normal functions, they prevent prying eyes from seeing or hearing more than they should."

"Need-to-know and all that," Vic said.

"Compartmentalization," Jake said. "Gotta love it. Sometimes I wonder if any one person knows everything that happens here."

Richard nodded. "With all the military branches, plus the CIA, NSA, and who knows how many other 'A's…" He shrugged, letting the Area Fifty-One salute finish his sentence.

"As you already know, your I.D. badge contains a tiny radio frequency or RF chip that allows access to your authorized facilities. The lift works the same way. Approach and it opens. Enter and it takes you to your assigned level."

As Richard finished, the lift came to a gentle stop
.

Another clunk echoed through the box as the door ahead lifted open.

In the topless Hummer, Richard grabbed the upper frame of the windshield and pulled himself out of his seat. Sitting on the driver's seat back, he spread his arms wide over the windshield with an exaggerated flourish. "Gentleman, I present Earth's most advanced fleet."

Hurtling past damp rough black stone, Lord Thrakst stomped down the hallway. Bursting onto the bridge, he glowered at the busy officers as they monitored Commodore Salyth's fleet preparations for the coming Light-Jump. Growling, Thrakst pointed at the communications officer. "Remind the young Commodore to have his ships disable their drive suppressors," his deep voice thundered, more felt than heard.

"Yes, Lord," replied the officer, forwarding the order. "Commodore Salyth confirms drive-level set to five and drive suppressors off, my Lord."

"Excellent, I wouldn't want him to get there too early. And, if they're too quiet, the Argonians might miss the party."

Through the bridge's view-wall, he watched Commodore Salyth's attack party move into formation for the Light-Jump to Sector Sixty-Four. Like his command ship, the dreadnoughts were a combination of natural and artificial structures. Engineered asteroids cobbled together by massive superstructures, their menacing appearance brought terror to all those unfortunate enough to cross them.

Except for the sculpted bridge section, the asteroids maintained their natural rough, cratered rocky exterior while the zoxa-formed interior was engineered to provide a Zoxyth atmosphere and climate. The zoxa-forming also fashioned bays for systems, weapons, and personnel. The ship's rocky jutting angles formed jagged silhouettes interspersed with smooth glistening metal of the connecting superstructures.

Thrakst scanned the nearest ship, Commodore Salyth's newly renamed command ship, the
Forebearer's Revenge
. Glowing green portals interrupted the patchwork of rock and alloy. Shadows moved across ports, as warriors within hastened about, performing their assigned pre-jump tasks.

At the allotted time, Salyth's ships appeared to wink out of existence as his fleet slipped into parallel-space.

Thrakst's talons anxiously scratched at the floor. Drool dripped from his gleaming gnarled teeth as he salivated at the thought of feasting upon his soon to be defeated enemies. "Happy hunting, Commodore."

Studying the object of her concern, Sandy ran a hand across her flat stomach. From its perch on a bed of perfectly folded toilet paper, the pregnancy test stick sat like a religious offering waiting for an Indiana Jones wannabe to scoop it up. After another glance at her washboard abs, she dissolved into a fit of laughter. The comic-book mental image of her round pregnant body rolling down the cavern, chasing the idol-snatcher from her own temple of doom, was more than Sandy's hormonally charged emotions could contain.

Just as quickly as it started, the laughter morphed into silent tears. "Shit!" Sitting on the closed toilet, she continued through her full library of choice curse words. Muffled by the hands cradling her face, her diatribe sounded like Charlie Brown's schoolteacher in the midst of a Turrets-Syndrome-fueled meltdown.

Her profanity reserves tapped, she sat in silence. Placing tear-soaked hands in her lap, Sandy stared at the ceiling. She took a deep calming breath. Letting it out in a long exhalation, she looked at her phone on the vanity top. Picking it up, Sandy turned it on. Jake's goofy grin stared back from the phone's screen. She nodded her head toward the pee stick. "What are you going to think about this little tidbit of news, mister?"

After a moment, she pressed the send button. Without ringing, the call went direct to voicemail. "Hi, this is Jake. I'm either flying or doing something really important. So, you know what to do." After the phone beeped, Sandy said, "Hey, babe, it's me. Give me a call when you get in. I miss you, mister Mysterious."

Ending the call she stared into his eyes. "What are you guys up to?"

In the two weeks since he'd returned from D.C. Jake had been very tight-lipped about what happened. His whole attitude had changed overnight. He'd left dejected and confused and returned happy and confident.