Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [37]
Palmer lifted an eyebrow. "So EG&G is out?"
"They are. But their ongoing contracts with NASA, the Department of Energy, Defense, Treasury and Homeland Security guarantees EG&G will have plenty of work to do in the foreseeable future."
Palmer realized Megan Reed had missed the motive behind his question. The Senator didn't care that EG&G was out of a contract, only that Groom Lake's legendary security was at the same levels that existed before the transition. Rather than clarify his query, Palmer let the subject drop.
The steward brought them coffee. Within a few minutes the aircraft was taxiing down the runway.
"This aircraft is fairly empty," Palmer noted. "What kind of personnel levels are we talking about these days?"
Megan Reed's pug nose curled as she considered his question.
"Well, there are flights north every half hour," she explained. "But what we call rush hour occurs weekday mornings, when our fleet of jets carry close to five hundred military personnel, contractors and civilian workers to several top secret locations in the desert. Most of these workers depart at our first stop — the main runway at Groom Lake."
She leaned back in her seat, crossed her tanned and shapely legs. "Next year I suspect those personnel numbers will be significantly curtailed due to ongoing cuts."
They hardly seemed to have left the ground when Senator Palmer heard the airplane's wheels come down again. He peered through the window, saw three concrete runways stretching whitely across the scorched brown desert terrain.
"Right now we're over Emigrant Valley in Lincoln County, Nevada," Dr. Reed told him. "Area 51 is almost below us. The experimental base is a relatively small, sixty square mile area inside of a much larger base called..."
"I know, Dr. Reed," Palmer said, cutting her short. "The Nevada Test and Training Range is about forty-six hundred square miles, Area 51 is just a tiny section of the entire complex."
She nodded, unperturbed by the Senator's apparent rudeness. "The dry lake bed is clearly visible from the air, and you can see both operating runways."
"I see three runways," Palmer replied.
"The one on our right has already been decommissioned. It's been neglected for so long it's no longer suitable for operations."
The aircraft descended then, until they were below the peaks of the Groom and Papoose Mountain ranges that surrounded the valley. Finally the wheels bumped once and the aircraft braked, engines whining shrilly. They landed in a cloud of sandy dust. The aircraft powered down and taxied to a small concrete building squatting in the sun.
"We've just arrived on the main runway, built in the 1990s," Megan Reed explained.
Palmer bit back a response. The demonstration had not even begun and already Palmer was tired of Dr. Megan Reed's endless explanations.
The "fasten seatbelt" light went off and the air steward popped the main door. Hot, dry desert air flooded the air conditioned compartment.
"Come along, Senator," Megan Reed said, rising and straightening her skirt. "Corporal Stratowski should be waiting on the tarmac with a Hummer. He'll drive us over to Hangar Six where the demonstration will take place..."
* * *
4:42:40 p.m. PDT
Senator Palmer's suite
Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Sherry Palmer had just returned from an intimate luncheon with the mayor's wife and twenty-two of her closest female friends — wives of party leaders, community board members and large donors, mostly. It was an unglamorous and exhausting affair, but necessary for building useful bridges to help her husband triumph in this state's primary, and later in the national elections.
Sherry had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing her tired feet when the suite's phone rang. She nodded and Lev Cohen answered for her.
"It's Larry Bell," Lev said a moment later, his hand covering the receiver.
"Tell him David isn't taking any calls," Sherry replied.
"He doesn't