Alien Research

CHAPTER 22

BUCHANAN WAS ACTING AS MY COPILOT, with Dad sitting in as navigator, Tito filling in as bombardier, and Adriana covering the electronic warfare station. I’d flown a BUFF before, so I didn’t need White and Christopher’s help, so they were backing Tito and Adriana.

Wasn’t sure that we’d need to drop bombs or deal with threats in the air, but the bombs were already loaded into the B-52’s belly, Tito and Adriana seemed calm about their assigned roles, White and Christopher appeared to actually have understood everything they’d speed-read, and I figured we might as well go in armed for bear.

Buchanan and I couldn’t wear our parachutes while we were in the pilot and copilot’s chairs. They were nearby, on either side of my purse, but if we were hit, he and I would have to move quickly. Chose to believe we wouldn’t be hit. Told myself I’d grab the parachute first and my purse second. Was glad Jeff wasn’t nearby to call me a liar.

Unlike the takeoff I’d had to do way back when, this plane required taxiing down a runway. Also unlike that first takeoff, I was in good shape with this one.

“Why are you plugging in your iPod?” Dad asked, as I handed my musical gear to Buchanan.

“Really? Because it’s me and I fly better with tunes going. Under the circumstances, we’re going with Mötley Crüe. Malcolm, roll their Saints of Los Angeles album.”

Christopher joined us as the rocking sounds of my favorite L.A. band filled the airwaves. They weren’t Aerosmith, but sometimes a girl needed a change. “Seriously? Music? Now?”

“You want to pilot this puppy? No? Then go back and help Tito and Adriana.”

“We’re going to die, you know,” Christopher said.

“Not today.” Well, not if I could help it. “William, you still with us?”

“Yes, Ambassador.”

“We’re all about to turn our phones off. When Jeff and Chuckie try to follow us, be sure they take a maneuverable jet, okay?”

“You’re certain they’ll be going there?”

“As certain as I am that the next few minutes are going to redefine the term ‘bumpy ride.’”

“Signing off, Ambassador. Call if you need us.”

“Okay, gang, phones and earpieces off, headsets for the plane on. Let’s strap in, we’re heading for Dulce.”

The takeoff wasn’t my best ever—I hadn’t flown anything for a while—but it was like riding a bike and came back to me quickly. Of course, when you fell off a bike you only went a couple of feet and usually weren’t likely to die. Did what Jerry had taught me and focused on the positives, even though “Face Down In the Dirt” was on. We’d be fine.

“Kitten, should your head be bobbing like that?” Dad asked.

“It’s called head-banging, Dad. And, again, I fly better this way.”

“That’s open to debate.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“We’re at cruising altitude,” Buchanan said calmly, as I leveled us off. “Well done, Missus Chief.”

“See? Someone took the Washington Wife class and understands that support is necessary and helpful. Speaking of helpful, Dad, a little navigational support wouldn’t be turned away.”

“Hmmm . . . head east.”

“No, really? Head east where? I need a heading and so forth.”

“I can navigate us, Missus Chief.”

“Thank God.”

“Has Kitty gotten us lost already?” Christopher asked.

“I don’t recall saying we should have the group communications line open.”

“I thought it would be better, kitten.”

“Thanks ever, Dad.”

“Focus,” Buchanan said calmly. “You’re letting the nose drop.”

“It makes the ride more interesting for those of us in the back,” Tito shared. The rest of the crew, princesses included, took this as their cue to add in. It was a party on our airwaves in record time. The only positive was that Adriana shared she was fairly sure she’d figured out how to activate the various jamming technology at her disposal, thanks to White’s instructions.

“It’s a good thing I can handle a lot of distractions while flying a big plane loaded with weapons and bombs.”

“That’s why you’re the woman for the job, Missus Martini.”

“Thanks, Rick honey. Remind me to hurt you later.” So, bickering, complaining, and joking, we headed for Dulce, accompanied by the Crüe’s “White Trash Circus.”

The weather was great, so we hit no air pockets. Jerry had trained me to handle them, but the B-52 was a lot bigger and heavier than the jets I’d spent more time in, so the less stress the elements gave me, the better.

The BUFF wasn’t supersonic, but Dulce wasn’t that far from Home Base, so we arrived in good time. Of course, once you were in the air, it was relatively easy. Takeoffs were hard, but they were nothing compared to landings. Landings were hard in the best of circumstances. I knew without asking that I wasn’t going to have the best circumstances available when I wanted to put us safely on the ground.

“We’re closing in,” Buchanan said. “Are you able to control the aircraft if we’re lower?”

“Yeah.” Jerry had prepared me for all eventualities, including flying low under the radar, so to speak. I dropped our altitude, but carefully. There were only a few complaints from the peanut gallery.

From the air, Dulce looked like a very boring installation doing nothing in the middle of nowhere. I’d learned early on that the more boring and inconsequential a building looked, the more likely it was to be housing things of the most supreme importance and secrecy.

As I’d also learned early on, Dulce had ground-to-air missiles. Camouflaged or not, our jamming systems working correctly or not, I had to figure someone was going to fire on us soon. However, there were other things of interest on the ground.

“Kitty, I see what looks like a dust devil forming,” Tito shared.

“Yeah, we see it, too. I think dust giant might be a more apt description though.”

“There’s no way that’s natural,” Dad said. “The formation is wrong and there are no signs of high winds.”

“Someone back there in the bombardier area see if you can identify who or what is causing the dust storm that looks more like a tornado.”

Tornados were so uncommon in Arizona and New Mexico as to be almost unheard of. This combined with Dad’s correct observation about the lack of high winds and the prior knowledge that a “dust storm” had moved everyone from Home Base to Dulce pretty much ensured this was man-, or more likely, alien-made.

Which begged another question. “Is it real, can anyone tell? I was thinking that someone on Al Dejahl’s team might be creating an illusion.”

“There are desert plants being pulled and shoved in a way that indicates there are real winds down there, Missus Martini.”

“So, they have a weather witch on their team?” We were the X-Men. If there was a Storm character hanging about, by all rights she should be on our side. Of course, that was the comics and this was my real life. Of course the bad guys had a weather witch, or warlock, on staff.

“Not sure,” Christopher said. “But I agree with my dad, it looks very real, based on what’s happening around and because of the dust storm.”

Said dust storm was definitely coming at us. I tried to fly around it, but it caught up quickly. Wasn’t sure if that was normal, but since I’d outrun a few big dust storms in my Lexus IS 300, which, while fast, wasn’t up to airplane speeds, had to figure the dust storm was unnatural and definitely out to get us.

The outer edge of the dust devil hit us. Sure enough, it was real enough to toss us around. I managed to pull up and away, amid a lot of cursing from the back, along with a tremendous amount of bickering. “I think we’ve figured it out,” Tito said finally. “Glad Adriana’s along and that Richard is a speed-reader of the highest order.”

“That last shake you gave us really helped,” Rahmi said. Apparently the princesses were learning sarcasm. Had no idea who’d been teaching them that skill.

“I’m not positive, but there is what appears to be a tank,” Adriana shared. “I believe someone is standing on it. The dust storm’s activity suggests it’s emanating from the same area as the tank.”

“What kind of training do you have?” Buchanan asked. “The Former Pontifex and Commander having read the manuals or not, I’m impressed any of you can work this equipment.”

“She’s gone to a really good espionage school. Probably the same one you went to, or close to it, Malcolm.” Contemplated our options. “I wish I knew, for certain, if the tank had all hostiles in it or not.”

“We’re at war,” Buchanan said quietly.

“But I don’t want our side hit by friendly fire.”

“Kitty, stop worrying about that!” Christopher sounded stressed. “It’s now exactly like last time—somehow, that dust storm is firing on us.”