Read Online Area 51: The Mission-3 by Robert Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Doherty
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Espionage, Political, High Tech, Unidentified flying objects, Space ships, Area 51 (Nev.), Plague, Extraterrestrial beings
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depth."
"And then?" Duncan asked.
"She sits, so those damn things don't attack her."
"Until?" Duncan pressed.
62
"Until your goddamn politician bosses get off their asses and let us blast the crap out of the island. And destroy these foo fighters like we did the other ones."
Easier said than done. Duncan kept the words to herself.
"Five minutes out!"
The interior of the Osprey was crowded with men and equipment. As it banked, the tie-down cables strained, keeping the gear from rolling. Turcotte went forward and stuck his head in the cockpit, looking over the shoulders of the pilots, while he kept a tight grip on the door frame.
It wasn't hard to see where Scorpion Base was. About a quarter mile to the east of where they were landing, the surface of the ice and snow had been splintered by a powerful force that had dug out a quarter-mile-wide trench.
Turcotte returned his attention to more immediate matters as the surface below came up quickly, a rush of white. The plane was very low now, and the pilot banked hard left.
Turcotte looked down as they flew over. There were several prefab structures on the surface where the digging crew lived.
"Better go buckle up," the pilot said to Turcotte.
They roared over a snow tractor with a large red flag tied off to the top. A man on top of the tractor was holding a green flag pointing in a northeasterly direction. Turcotte went to the cargo bay and pulled the seat belt tight across his lap. His take on military seat belts had always been that their only purpose was to try to keep the corpse with the plane if it crashed.
Turcotte watched through the small window as the wings slowly began to rotate upward, slowing the plane's
63
forward speed, while at the same time making up for the loss in lift from the tilted wings.
The plane bounced once, then was down. Turcotte could see the snow tractor had a flatbed trailer hitched to it and was heading toward them.
The silence as the pilots turned off the engines was as shocking as any loud sound. They'd lived with that noise for eight and a half hours on the flight down here from the USS Stennis. As his senses adjusted, the steady whine of wind bouncing off the skin of the plane became noticeable. With the airplane's heater off, the interior temperature immediately started dropping.
Turcotte cinched his hood on his Gore-Tex parka. He made sure all his gear was secure before finally pulling the bulky mittens on over his hands.
For this trip, Turcotte had pulled his cold-weather equipment out of the duffel bag that traveled everywhere with him. He was wearing a Gore-Tex camouflage parka and overpants over Patagonia Pile jacket and bib pants that zipped on the sides. He had polypropylene underwear next to his body to wick away any moisture from the skin. Large boots—Turcotte referred to them as Mickey Mouse boots—covered his feet. Despite all the advantages in technology over the years, this outfit was little different from what he had worn for cold-weather training five years earlier. The boots were the same soldiers had worn twenty years earlier. Turcotte was always disgusted with the way the Pentagon would spend billions on a new jet but wouldn't spring to get the soldier a warm boot.
The back ramp cracked open and the blast of cold air slammed into Turcotte's lungs. The air on the tiny parts of his face that were exposed hurt. His skin automatically rebelled, trying to shrink from the pain of the cold, and he felt his muscles tighten as if he could make him-
64
self smaller and that would in some way make him warmer. He tried to force his body to relax as he walked toward the tractor.
The tractor roared up, treads clattering, placing the trailer alongside the plane. The driver, looking like a bear in his garments, waved down at them, pumping his fist. There were several drums on the trailer, and the crew of the plane began refueling.
"Let's off-load," Turcotte called out.
Once all the equipment was off the
"And then?" Duncan asked.
"She sits, so those damn things don't attack her."
"Until?" Duncan pressed.
62
"Until your goddamn politician bosses get off their asses and let us blast the crap out of the island. And destroy these foo fighters like we did the other ones."
Easier said than done. Duncan kept the words to herself.
"Five minutes out!"
The interior of the Osprey was crowded with men and equipment. As it banked, the tie-down cables strained, keeping the gear from rolling. Turcotte went forward and stuck his head in the cockpit, looking over the shoulders of the pilots, while he kept a tight grip on the door frame.
It wasn't hard to see where Scorpion Base was. About a quarter mile to the east of where they were landing, the surface of the ice and snow had been splintered by a powerful force that had dug out a quarter-mile-wide trench.
Turcotte returned his attention to more immediate matters as the surface below came up quickly, a rush of white. The plane was very low now, and the pilot banked hard left.
Turcotte looked down as they flew over. There were several prefab structures on the surface where the digging crew lived.
"Better go buckle up," the pilot said to Turcotte.
They roared over a snow tractor with a large red flag tied off to the top. A man on top of the tractor was holding a green flag pointing in a northeasterly direction. Turcotte went to the cargo bay and pulled the seat belt tight across his lap. His take on military seat belts had always been that their only purpose was to try to keep the corpse with the plane if it crashed.
Turcotte watched through the small window as the wings slowly began to rotate upward, slowing the plane's
63
forward speed, while at the same time making up for the loss in lift from the tilted wings.
The plane bounced once, then was down. Turcotte could see the snow tractor had a flatbed trailer hitched to it and was heading toward them.
The silence as the pilots turned off the engines was as shocking as any loud sound. They'd lived with that noise for eight and a half hours on the flight down here from the USS Stennis. As his senses adjusted, the steady whine of wind bouncing off the skin of the plane became noticeable. With the airplane's heater off, the interior temperature immediately started dropping.
Turcotte cinched his hood on his Gore-Tex parka. He made sure all his gear was secure before finally pulling the bulky mittens on over his hands.
For this trip, Turcotte had pulled his cold-weather equipment out of the duffel bag that traveled everywhere with him. He was wearing a Gore-Tex camouflage parka and overpants over Patagonia Pile jacket and bib pants that zipped on the sides. He had polypropylene underwear next to his body to wick away any moisture from the skin. Large boots—Turcotte referred to them as Mickey Mouse boots—covered his feet. Despite all the advantages in technology over the years, this outfit was little different from what he had worn for cold-weather training five years earlier. The boots were the same soldiers had worn twenty years earlier. Turcotte was always disgusted with the way the Pentagon would spend billions on a new jet but wouldn't spring to get the soldier a warm boot.
The back ramp cracked open and the blast of cold air slammed into Turcotte's lungs. The air on the tiny parts of his face that were exposed hurt. His skin automatically rebelled, trying to shrink from the pain of the cold, and he felt his muscles tighten as if he could make him-
64
self smaller and that would in some way make him warmer. He tried to force his body to relax as he walked toward the tractor.
The tractor roared up, treads clattering, placing the trailer alongside the plane. The driver, looking like a bear in his garments, waved down at them, pumping his fist. There were several drums on the trailer, and the crew of the plane began refueling.
"Let's off-load," Turcotte called out.
Once all the equipment was off the
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