David Morrell - The Shimmer

“Wouldn’t pay attention to the sign!” the guard yelled from be- yond the fences.

Brent had lost his handheld microphone. Now he relied solely on the shotgun mike attached to the top of the camera, although he had little hope that it would register the guard’s voice from so far away.

“Had to come barging in!” the guard continued. “All I wanted was to listen to the music!”

Music? Brent thought.

“I told you to get out of here!” the guard shouted. “But you had to keep pushing! You had to keep me from the music!”

What in God’s name is he talking about? Brent wondered.

“Trespassers will be prosecuted! That’s what the sign says!”

More bullets sprayed dirt above Brent’s head.

“And as soon as I get these gates open, I’ll prosecute you to hell!”

Brent crawled toward Anita, whose dark skin should never have looked so pale. He untucked the pen that bound the tourniquet and loosened the cloth, grimacing at the sight of the blood that flowed from her left arm.

“Need to free the circulation from time to time. Otherwise you might get gangrene.”

“Too much information,” she said weakly.

“Sorry.”

“Cold.” Anita turned her head to the side and made vomiting noises, but nothing came from her stomach. “Heart’s racing. Think I’m in shock.”

Brent retightened the tourniquet. He strained to push a large rock toward her, propping her sneakers on it. “This is supposed to help.”

“Where’d you learn all this?”

“I did a story about an emergency first-aid team.”

“And now you’re an expert? Lord, I wish I hadn’t asked. The cam- era.” Breathing rapidly, Anita noticed that Brent had set it down so that it pointed toward them. The red light was on. “You’re recording us?”

“Don’t you want to be a star?”

For a moment, Brent thought he heard an approaching engine. His pulse raced with the hope that the police had heard the explosions and were coming. But at once the faint drone stopped, and he feared he’d imagined it.

He picked up the camera and hoped that the smoke and flames would shield him as he hurried to the front of the burning van. Staying back from the heat, he aimed the camera along the side and focused on the guard, who stood before the inside gate. He seemed to be studying it.

He’s not sure if the fence still has any juice to it, Brent realized. When the helicopter crashed onto the fence, did it cut off the electricity, or will he get fried if he touches the gate?

The guard evidently decided not to take the chance. He swung to- ward the shed, ran past the truck piled with corpses, and vanished through the doorway.

“Anita!” Brent rushed over to her. “He went inside! I think he’s shutting off the electricity to the fence. If I’m right, he’ll soon come for us. Hurry! We need to move!”

She licked her dry lips and nodded. “Help me up.”

After he lifted her, she hooked her unwounded right arm around his neck. He linked his left arm around her waist. Holding the camera with his right hand, he helped her waver along the dirt road.

The elevation of Rostov’s airport was five thousand feet. Page climbed three thousand five hundred feet higher than that and headed west along the county road that, according to his aerial map, formed one boundary of the observatory’s prohibited airspace. That altitude provided a good perspective on the flat, sparse grassland off to the right.

Tori adjusted the microphone on her headset.

“Two columns of smoke.” She pointed.

Even at a distance, the white observatory dishes were obvious, including the one that was tilted sideways and aimed toward the south- east. One section of smoke was on the left side of the dishes, very close to them. The other was in front of the dishes, rising from a dirt lane that led from the observatory to the county road.

The dark smoke reminded Page uncomfortably of the gasoline tanker he’d seen explode in Santa Fe, just four days earlier.

As he guided the Cessna along the boundary road, he and Tori came parallel to the fires on their right, gaining a closer view. She removed binoculars from Page’s flight bag and peered through them, adjusting their focus.

“Wreckage near the dishes.” She sounded more troubled. “Rotor blades. Looks like a helicopter crashed.” She aimed the binoculars to- ward the lane. “The other fire’s coming from a vehicle. A van. It’s got a dish on it. Looks like a television news van.”

Page activated the police radio.

“Cessna Four Three Alpha calling Captain Medrano.”

Immediately Medrano’s voice crackled through Page’s headset. “Go ahead.”

“We’re seeing what appears to be a downed helicopter next to the observatory. It and a television news van are on fire.”

“What?”

“It isn’t clear what happened. I told you prohibited flight areas usually involve national security. Do you suppose there’s some kind of special government project there? The kind terrorists would want to attack?”

“The FBI must be worried about the same thing,” Medrano’s voice said starkly. “They gave you permission to take a closer look. They also gave me permission to send police cars in there.”

“Understood. I have clearance to enter.”

He banked to the right toward the columns of smoke. Through the canopy, the white dishes got bigger.

Tori kept staring through the binoculars.

“Do you see any survivors?” Page asked.

“No. Wait. Yes. But not at the helicopter. At the van. I see two people stumbling along the road. They’re heading in our direction. A man and a woman. It looks like the woman’s hurt.”

As Page flew closer, they came into his line of sight. Struggling along the dirt lane, the man held the woman up with his left arm. He was carrying something in his lowered right hand.

“Is that a television camera?” Tori asked in amazement. “My God, that’s the TV reporter who’s been looking for us.”

The woman’s knees bent. She slumped, dragging the man down with her, both of them toppling to the ground.

Tori adjusted the binoculars. “The woman’s covered with blood.”

Medrano’s voice blurted through Page’s headset.

“The FBI has rescinded your clearance! Turn around! Get out of there!”

Page frowned at Tori. “What’s going on?”

He was about to press the police radio’s transmit button, but Medrano kept talking.

“You must be right-this has something to do with national security! And somebody with influence must be involved! A special team is being sent in!”

Page kept flying toward the observatory.

“Do you copy?” Medrano’s voice demanded. “Your clearance to enter the prohibited airspace is no longer valid! Turn around!”

“The police radio’s been acting up lately,” Page told Tori. “All I hear is static.”

“Yeah, I don’t hear him, either.”

Page gestured toward the man and woman who’d toppled onto the lane. The woman was sprawled on her back while the man knelt be- side her, doing something to her left arm.

“How long do you think it’ll take for that special team to get organized?” Page wondered. “The nearest place they can come from is El Paso. Maybe farther away than that. My guess is it’ll take at least two hours for help to arrive. That woman might be dead by then.”

“Do you understand?” Medrano’s voice was loud enough to be distorted. “You do not have clearance to enter that airspace!”

Page shut off the radio. “It keeps overheating, too.”

Beyond the burning van, he saw that three high fences encircled the observatory dishes. An open-backed truck was parked near a shed- like building.