Area 51 Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Robert Doherty
commented, sitting down with his back against a boulder. They'd arrived at the top of White Sides Mountain ten minutes earlier and settled in on the edge of the mountaintop, overlooking the lake bed.
"Might just be for the C-130's," Simmons commented.
The transport planes were parked near a particularly large hangar and there was some activity going on around them. He focused the glasses. "They're not unloading," he said. "They're loading something onto the planes. Looks like a couple of helicopters."
"Helicopters?" Franklin repeated. "Let me see." He took the binoculars and looked for a few minutes. "I've seen one of those type of choppers before.
Painted all black. The big one is a UH-60 Blackhawk. The two little ones I don't know. They fly UH-60's around here for security. I had one buzz my truck one day down on the mailboxroad."
"Where do you think they're taking them?" Simmons asked, taking the binoculars back.
"I don't know."
"Something's going on," Simmons said.
MCCARREN FIELD, LAS VEGAS
T-142 HOURS, 45 MINUTES
The 737 had no markings on it other than a broad red band painted down the outside. It was parked behind a Cyclone fence with green stripping run through the chain links to discourage observers. Turcotte carried his kit bag right on board after Prague joked that they could carry any damn thing they wanted onto this flight--there was no baggage check.
Instead of a stewardess a hard-faced man in a three-piece suit was waiting inside the plane door, checking off personnel as they came in. "Who's this?" he demanded, looking at Turcotte.
"Fresh meat," Prague replied. "I picked him up this evening."
"Let me see your ID," the man demanded.
Turcotte pulled out his military ID card and the man scanned the picture.
"Wait here." He stepped back into what had been the forward galley and flipped open a small portable phone. He spoke into it for a minute, then flipped it shut. He came out. "Your orders check out. You're cleared."
Although his face showed no change of expression, Turcotte slowly relaxed his right hand and rubbed the fingers lightly over the scar tissue that was knotted over the palm of that hand.
The man held up a small device. "Blow."
Turcotte glanced at Prague, who took the device and blew into it. The man checked the readout, quickly switched out the tube, and handed it to Turcotte, who did the same. After looking at the readout the man gestured with the phone toward the back of the plane.
Prague slapped Turcotte on the back and led him down the aisle. Turcotte glanced at the other men gathered on board. They all had the same look: hard, professional, and competent. It was the demeanor that all the men Turcotte had served with over the years in Special Operations had.
As Prague settled down next to him and the door to the plane shut, Turcotte decided to try to find out what was going on, especially since it now seemed they were on alert.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
"Area 51," Prague replied. "It's an Air Force facility.
Well, actually it's on Air Force land, but it's run by an organization called the National Reconnaissance Organization or NRO, which is responsible for all overhead imagery."
Turcotte knew that the NRO was an extensive operation, overseeing all satellite and spy-plane operations with a budget in the billions. He'd been on several missions where he'd received support from the NRO.
"What exactly do we do?" Turcotte asked, pressing his hands against the seat back in front of him and pushing, relieving the tension in his shoulders.
"Security," Prague answered. "Air Force handles the outer perimeter but we do the inside stuff, since we all have the clearances. Actually," he amended,
"Delta Ops consists of two units. One is called Landscape and the other Nightscape. Landscape is responsible for on-the-ground security of the facilities at Area 51 and for keeping tabs on the people there. Nightscape, which you are now part of . . ." Prague paused. "Well, you'll
"Might just be for the C-130's," Simmons commented.
The transport planes were parked near a particularly large hangar and there was some activity going on around them. He focused the glasses. "They're not unloading," he said. "They're loading something onto the planes. Looks like a couple of helicopters."
"Helicopters?" Franklin repeated. "Let me see." He took the binoculars and looked for a few minutes. "I've seen one of those type of choppers before.
Painted all black. The big one is a UH-60 Blackhawk. The two little ones I don't know. They fly UH-60's around here for security. I had one buzz my truck one day down on the mailboxroad."
"Where do you think they're taking them?" Simmons asked, taking the binoculars back.
"I don't know."
"Something's going on," Simmons said.
MCCARREN FIELD, LAS VEGAS
T-142 HOURS, 45 MINUTES
The 737 had no markings on it other than a broad red band painted down the outside. It was parked behind a Cyclone fence with green stripping run through the chain links to discourage observers. Turcotte carried his kit bag right on board after Prague joked that they could carry any damn thing they wanted onto this flight--there was no baggage check.
Instead of a stewardess a hard-faced man in a three-piece suit was waiting inside the plane door, checking off personnel as they came in. "Who's this?" he demanded, looking at Turcotte.
"Fresh meat," Prague replied. "I picked him up this evening."
"Let me see your ID," the man demanded.
Turcotte pulled out his military ID card and the man scanned the picture.
"Wait here." He stepped back into what had been the forward galley and flipped open a small portable phone. He spoke into it for a minute, then flipped it shut. He came out. "Your orders check out. You're cleared."
Although his face showed no change of expression, Turcotte slowly relaxed his right hand and rubbed the fingers lightly over the scar tissue that was knotted over the palm of that hand.
The man held up a small device. "Blow."
Turcotte glanced at Prague, who took the device and blew into it. The man checked the readout, quickly switched out the tube, and handed it to Turcotte, who did the same. After looking at the readout the man gestured with the phone toward the back of the plane.
Prague slapped Turcotte on the back and led him down the aisle. Turcotte glanced at the other men gathered on board. They all had the same look: hard, professional, and competent. It was the demeanor that all the men Turcotte had served with over the years in Special Operations had.
As Prague settled down next to him and the door to the plane shut, Turcotte decided to try to find out what was going on, especially since it now seemed they were on alert.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
"Area 51," Prague replied. "It's an Air Force facility.
Well, actually it's on Air Force land, but it's run by an organization called the National Reconnaissance Organization or NRO, which is responsible for all overhead imagery."
Turcotte knew that the NRO was an extensive operation, overseeing all satellite and spy-plane operations with a budget in the billions. He'd been on several missions where he'd received support from the NRO.
"What exactly do we do?" Turcotte asked, pressing his hands against the seat back in front of him and pushing, relieving the tension in his shoulders.
"Security," Prague answered. "Air Force handles the outer perimeter but we do the inside stuff, since we all have the clearances. Actually," he amended,
"Delta Ops consists of two units. One is called Landscape and the other Nightscape. Landscape is responsible for on-the-ground security of the facilities at Area 51 and for keeping tabs on the people there. Nightscape, which you are now part of . . ." Prague paused. "Well, you'll
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