Fallout

CHAPTER 17

Hours after leaving the nuclear test tunnels behind, Mike Waterloo ducked out of the twin-engine plane that had flown him across Nellis restricted air space. Holding his black satchel containing a barcode reader and portable computer, he scanned the runway for his security escort.

The aircraft had parked at a remote terminus of the desert airstrip, a mile from five ominous hangars clustered at the end of the dry lakebed bordered by rugged mountains. Three huge C-141 Starlifter transport planes sat next to the hangars. The Groom Lake Auxiliary Station provided temporary storage for decommissioned nuclear weapons… as well as whatever else the government had hidden in the isolated, secure facility.

Few people ever got to see this place at all — but Mike Waterloo didn’t feel terribly lucky. In fact, it made his skin crawl. He had his own suspicions about what was going on up here. The area was partitioned off as the northern part of the Nellis AFB bombing range, deep inside the most isolated portion of the Nevada desert. The town of Tonopah was the only sign of civilization on any map around, outside the base boundary at the junction of Highways 6 and 95.

In 1993 a group of workers had sued the Air Force, the Defense Secretary, and the White House national security advisor, for toxic exposures they had received during top-secret activities taking place at Groom Lake. The suit had progressed for nearly a year while the Air Force flatly denied the existence of Groom Lake. When the President himself had issued an exemption that kept the secrets under wraps because they were “in the paramount interests of the United States,” the workers had lost their suit, forbidden even to present their evidence in court.…

A blue sedan sat near the aircraft, its engine idling. A trim, black Air Force officer stood next to the car, waiting for him. Everything about the young Air Force officer seemed sculpted, crisp and right to the point. “Mr. Waterloo? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Terrell, group operations commander.” Curt and all business, he handed Waterloo a local area badge, Escort Required.

Waterloo shook the man’s hand and was not surprised at the rock-hard grip. “What happened to LtCol Felowmate?” Waterloo asked. “He usually escorts me.”

“He was transferred, sir. National security reasons.”

“Of course,” Waterloo said.

“The generals allow Ops Commanders to serve for only two years. Prevents burnout. This tour is classified as a remote assignment — remote from the family, since there’s no support facilities for dependents. It’s tough for the younger troops.”

“I see,” Waterloo said. But at least they still have their wives to go back to, he thought, pushing away an image of Genny in her last days in the hospital. The times he had spent at the Nevada Test Site in the early years had been considered a “remote” assignment from his home back at Livermore — although the old Atomic Energy Commission had never called it that, never given him credit for the hardships.

The driver opened the back door for him. Waterloo ducked as he climbed in, placing his black satchel beside him. A sign above the driver’s windshield read FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY — USE OF SEAT BELTS IS MANDATORY. The air conditioner hummed on high, and it felt good to relax against the soft seat. LtCol Terrell joined him in the back.

Terrell glanced at his watch. “The transport plane should be here by the time we inventory your devices. We’ll get you back to the DAF by late afternoon.”

“Good — we’ve had an incident with one of the Russian inspectors, and I need to ride herd on it.” Waterloo leaned forward to look at the C-141s by the isolated hangars. “I hope you’re not going to use a Starlifter to transport the devices — we can’t land aircraft that big at the strip out by the DAF.”

Terrell hesitated. “Those 141s are for another purpose, sir. Sorry, but I can’t give you any details. A C-17 is due within the hour. We’ll escort the devices from Omega Mountain and set up the convoy in the meantime.”

The driver headed east, away from the main complex on a wide two-lane road in immaculate condition. Omega Mountain rose up before them, revealing concrete bunkers with steel doors that dotted the brown foothills every few hundred yards. Waterloo had heard the heavy doors had been salvaged from the sides of old battleships, and could withstand a kiloton blast.

Four concentric electrified fences surrounded the complex. Waterloo remembered the last time he had been here, one of the guards had boasted that more electricity ran through these perimeter fences than powered the entire city of Las Vegas.

As the sedan approached a double-wide gate big enough for a tractor trailer, the driver picked up a microphone. “Omega Base, this is Ops CC. We are approximately one kilometer from your entrance. Switching off IFF frequencies now.”

“That’s a rog, Ops CC. We’ll look for your blip.”

The driver reached to the dashboard, keyed in a number, and flicked a switch on the transmitter box. The green glowing light blinked to red.

“We paint you 10 by 10, Ops CC,” the voice said. “Proceed to Omega.”

“Rog.” The driver flicked the switch back.

Terrell explained, “The Identification Friend or Foe is designed to discriminate between friendlies and hostiles in a combat situation. It’s three generations up from what’s in our planes.”

Waterloo nodded, feigning disinterest. “Oh? How does it work?” He knew the information already from Colonel Felowmate on previous trips, but he listened intently, hoping Terrell would let slip additional details.

“When the IFF box in our vehicle is turned on, it sends a message back to the area security radar and tells the computer to ignore us. Without it, every vehicle on the base would show up on the screen. This way, we detect only unauthorized vehicles.”

As they approached the gate, an MP in sand-colored khakis waved for the sedan to stop. The driver rolled down his window as Terrell returned the guard’s salute. After checking their badges, the guard signaled for the double-wide gate to swing open. The driver pulled into the sally port and waited between fences as another guard inspected under their car using a mirror attached to a long pole. Security cameras recorded every move.

Waterloo commented, “Since the DAF wasn’t built for high volume work, I’m glad Groom Lake has the temporary storage responsibilities for the stockpile, not us.”

Terrell frowned sourly. “Yes, aren’t we all.” Over the Air Force’s protests, Congress had selected Groom Lake as a staging point for the nation’s drawdown of nuclear weapons, a place to store the warheads about to be dismantled at the adjoining Nevada Test Site. It remained a sore point for them.

The second gate finally opened. The driver proceeded slowly into the Omega Mountain fortress as Terrell glanced at a typed checklist. “They’re pulling the devices out of bunker 1820 now.”

They followed a blacktop road around the nearest foothill, passing two storage bunkers before finally stopping at 1820. A red light in a metal cage gleamed from the top of each bunker; three-pronged yellow and magenta radiation signs prominently marked the front.

The size of the convoy security impressed Waterloo. Two more guards stood in front of the bunker with M-16s at their hips. Behind them nine white drums had been lashed to a flatbed truck while workers hoisted a tenth on top. To the right sat a Bronco bristling with communication antennas. Two Armored Personnel Carriers stood waiting to escort the flatbed.

Terrell open his door. “Ready, Mr. Waterloo?” Hot, dry air rolled in from the desert.

Grabbing his black satchel, Waterloo followed Terrell to the flatbed. The guard acknowledged them, but did not salute, keeping a wary eye on the two newcomers, as if he did not trust his own commanding officer.

Waterloo glanced into the fortified storage bunker. Yellow lines painted on the concrete floor led deep inside the facility, displaying a transport path to the individual weapons vaults. Follow the yellow brick road, he thought. Maybe it leads to Dreamland.…

A tech sergeant wearing a sidearm jogged up to them. He saluted. “Howdy, Colonel. Everything’s on schedule, sir.”

Terrell flipped through a sheaf of papers on a clipboard. “You’ve cleared the devices to transfer to DOE?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

The sergeant pulled over a small footstool. “Watch your step climbing up.” He helped them onto the hot metal top of the flatbed.

Waterloo fumbled in his black satchel, removing the barcode reader, which he plugged into the hand-held computer crammed with inventory information. He ran the barcode reader over the top of the first white drum on the truck. Checking the readout, he saw three lines of information appear, listing the previous storage facility, the date assembled, and a short history of maintenance checks performed.

“Ah, a Livermore weapon,” he mused. “I probably worked with several of the people who designed this warhead.”

Terrell glanced at his watch. “Your plane should be arriving soon, sir — the convoy does have a schedule to keep.”

“Right.” Waterloo turned to the computer display. “I’ll read off the inventory data, and you check it off before you sign each device over to me.”

Terrell smoothed his paper on the clipboard as if that were the most obvious fact in the world. “You may ride in the cab on the way to the plane, if you wish to maintain uninterrupted visual surveillance.”

“No need,” he said. “With all these signatures and all this paperwork, how could anyone accidentally lose track of a warhead?” But deep inside, Waterloo wondered if they truly believed in the infallibility of their security.

It took half an hour for the toiling convoy to make the drive back to the isolated runway and the newly arrived C-17 transport plane. On the way back, Waterloo radioed ahead to the DAF to have Sally Montry finalize the escort vehicles waiting at the receiving air strip in NTS.

As they approached, the sedan skirted the group of mysterious hangars by a wide margin. Waterloo realized he’d been placed behind the driver’s seat, which kept Terrell between him and a good view of the hangars. Intentionally?

Waterloo leaned toward Terrell, still unable to get a good view. “We saw one of your stealth bombers flying over the NTS a few hours ago. Cruising quite low — everyone was impressed, including the Russian inspectors.”

“We’re still doing a lot of testing,” Terrell said curtly.

“Out here at Groom Lake? I’ve heard rumors about your Dreamland facility, Colonel. Any chance of getting a tour?”

Terrell flashed a sharp glance over at him. “That request is out of line, sir. Your security clearance does not transfer to our other work here at Groom Lake. Our responsibility for storing nuclear devices is temporary and definitely not our primary mission. Beyond that, I am not familiar with the facility you mentioned.”

Waterloo didn’t pursue the matter further. But the brush-off made him all the more uneasy.