Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

Brewster crossed Fifth Street, and continued on. He went another half a block, and then turned left, down an alley. Sarah got to the alley entrance, and paused. There were garbage bags stacked at intervals. She could smell the rotten odor from where she was. A big delivery truck blocked the far end of the alley.

And no Brewster.

He had vanished.

It wasn't possible, unless he had walked through one of the back doors that opened onto the alley. There were doors every twenty feet or so, many of them recessed into the brick wall.

She bit her lip. She didn't like the idea that she couldn't see him. But there were delivery men down at the truck amp;.

She started down the alley.

She looked at each door as she passed it. Some were boarded shut, some were locked. A few had grimy signs giving the name of the firm, and saying USE FRONT ENTRANCE OR PRESS BELL FOR SERVICE.

No Brewster.

She had gotten halfway down the alley when something made her look back. She was just in time to see Brewster step out of a doorway and head back to the street, moving quickly away from her.

She ran.

As she passed the doorway, she saw an elderly woman standing in the door. The sign on the door said, Munro Silk and Fabrics.

"Who is he?" she shouted.

The old woman shrugged, shaking her head. "Wrong door. They all do" She said something more, but by then Sarah couldn't hear.

She was back on the sidewalk, still running. Heading toward Fourth. She could see Brewster half a block ahead. He was walking quickly, almost a jog.

He crossed Fourth. A pickup truck pulled over to the side, a few yards ahead. It was battered blue, with Arizona license plates. Brewster jumped in the passenger side, and the truck roared off.

Sarah was scribbling down the license plate when Kenner's car screeched to a stop alongside her. "Get in."

She did, and he accelerated forward.

"Where were you?" she said.

"Getting the car. I saw you leave. Did you film him?"

She had forgotten all about the bag on her shoulder. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. I got a name for this guy, from the store owner."

"Yes?"

"But it's probably an alias. David Poulson. And a shipping address."

"For the rockets?"

"No, for the launch stands."

"Where?"

Kenner said, "Flagstaff, Arizona."

Ahead, they saw the blue pickup.

They followed the pickup down Second, past the Los Angeles Times building, past the criminal courts, and then onto the freeway. Kenner was skilled; he managed to stay well back, but always kept the truck in sight.

"You've done this before," Sarah said.

"Not really."

"What is that little card you show everybody?"

Kenner pulled out his wallet, and handed it to her. There was a silver badge, looking roughly like a police badge, except it said "NSIA" on it. And there was an official license for "National Security Intelligence Agency," with his photograph.

"I've never heard of the National Security Intelligence Agency."

Kenner nodded, took the wallet back.

"What does it do?"

"Stays below the radar," Kenner said. "Have you heard from Evans?"

"You don't want to tell me?"

"Nothing to tell," Kenner said. "Domestic terrorism makes domestic agencies uncomfortable. They're either too harsh or too lenient. Everyone in NSIA is specially trained. Now, call Sanjong and read him the license plate on that pickup, see if he can trace it."

"So you do domestic terrorism?"

"Sometimes."

Ahead, the pickup truck moved onto the Interstate 5 freeway, heading east, past the clustered yellowing buildings of County General Hospital.

"Where are they going?" she said.

"I don't know," he said. "But this is the road to Arizona."

She picked up the phone and called Sanjong.

Sanjong wrote down the license, and called back in less than five minutes. "It's registered to the Lazy-Bar Ranch, outside Sedona," he told Kenner. "It's apparently a guest ranch and spa. The truck hasn't been reported stolen."

"Okay. Who owns the ranch?"

"It's a holding company: Great Western Environmental Associates. They own a string of guest ranches in Arizona and New Mexico."

"Who owns the holding company?"

"I'm checking on that, but it'll take some time."

Sanjong hung up.

Ahead, the pickup truck moved into the right lane, and turned on its blinker.

"It's pulling off the road," Kenner said.

They followed the truck through an area of seedy industrial parks. Sometimes the signs said sheet works or machine tooling, but most of the buildings were blocky and unrevealing. The air was hazy, almost a light fog.

After two miles, the truck turned right again, just past a sign that said ltsi corp. And beneath that, a small picture of an airport, with an arrow.

"It must be a private airfield," Kenner said.

"What's LTSI?" she said.

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Farther down the road, they could see the little airfield, with several small prop planes, Cessnas and Pipers, parked to one side. The truck drove up and parked alongside a twin-engine plane.

"Twin Otter," Kenner said.

"Is that significant?"

"Short takeoff, large payload. It's a workhorse aircraft. Used for fire-fighting, all sorts of things."

Brewster got out of the truck, and walked to the cockpit of the plane. He spoke briefly to the pilot. Then he got back in the truck, and drove a hundred yards down the road, pulling up in front of a huge rectangular shed of corrugated steel. There were two other trucks parked alongside it. The sign on the shed said ltsi, in big blue letters.

Brewster got out of the truck, and came around the back as the driver of the truck got out.

"Son of a bitch," Sarah said.

The driver was the man they knew as Bolden. He was now wearing jeans, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, but there was no doubt about his identity.

"Easy," Kenner said.

They watched as Brewster and Bolden walked into the shed through a narrow door. The door closed behind them with a metallic clang.

Kenner turned to Sarah. "You stay here."

He got out of the car, walked quickly to the shed, and went inside.

She sat in the passenger seat, shading her eyes against the sun, and waited. The minutes dragged. She squinted at the sign on the side of the shed, because she could detect small white lettering beneath the large ltsi initials. But she was too far away to make out what it said.

She thought of calling Sanjong, but didn't. She worried about what would happen if Brewster and Bolden came out, but Kenner remained inside. She would have to follow them alone. She couldn't let them get away amp;.

That thought led her to slide over into the driver's seat. She rested her hands on the wheel. She looked at her watch. Surely nine or ten minutes had already passed. She scanned the shed for any sign of activity, but the building was clearly made to be as unobtrusive and as unrevealing as possible.

She looked at her watch again.

She began to feel like a coward, just sitting there. All her life, she had confronted the things that frightened her. That was why she had learned to ski black diamond ice, to rock climb (even though she was too tall), to scuba dive wrecks.

Now, she was just sitting in a hot car, waiting as the minutes ticked by.

The hell with it, she thought. And she got out of the car.

At the door to the shed, there were two small signs. One said ltsi lightning test systems international. The second said warning: do not enter test bed during discharge intervals.

Whatever that meant.

Sarah opened the door cautiously. There was a reception area, but it was deserted. On a plain wooden desk was a handwritten sign and a buzzer. PRESS BUZZER FOR ASSISTANCE.

She ignored the buzzer, and opened the inner door, which was ominously marked: