Craig Kreident #2 Fallout by Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson

the broad plain like a watercolor wash.   Scarecrowish Joshua Trees mottled the landscape along with mesquite, brush sage, and gray-green thistles.   Jagged mountains lay in angled strips on every horizon.   Nothing looked remotely soft , as far as Paige could see.   The sky was as clear as a blue magnifying glass, but she knew that sudden and violent thunderstorms could roll in at any time.
    The Russians spoke little, still in shock at the death of their team leader.   Paige knew the thoughts going through their minds:   Had it been lax security at the DAF, or was it a sophisticated coverup for something more sinister?   What had Nevsky been doing alone in a restricted area, far from the glove boxes?
    Paige had seen other accident investigations and the inevitable result.   Fingers had to be pointed, and for a tragedy of this magnitude the DAF would have to cough up at least one scapegoat — probably someone like Jorgenson or PK Dirks.   She dreaded the repercussions might ripple as high as the DAF Manager, Uncle Mike. . . .
    Paige caught a glimpse of figures moving overland across the desert up ahead.   People . . . walking along like a group of hikers crossing the road.   She squinted.   “Who’s that?”
    Dirks leaned forward.   “Shouldn’t be anyone out here, ma’am.   Slow down,” he said.   “This is a security zone, not a Boyscout jamboree.”
    The three hikers cut across the road as they headed north toward the distant range of mesas.   They turned to face the oncoming van as if hoping to hitch a ride.   How had they managed to get past NTS security?   Several sequential gates phased people into various sections of the site; mobile ground and airborne guard forces monitored the area for intruders.
    But apparently not well enough.
    “Ma’am,” said Dirks, speaking more urgently now, “maybe we should use the CB to call security?”   The Russians spoke excitedly among themselves, catching a glimpse of what was going on.
    Paige handed Dirks the CB microphone as she pulled up next to the two men and a woman.   One of the men was extremely thin and tall, with stringy hair hanging from his floppy brown cowboy hat; he blinked behind round John Lennon glasses.   The woman was short and pudgy, wearing her black hair in two braids; the other man looked like a weightlifter dressed in a loose, tie-dyed T-shirt.  
    The tall man waved and gave a goofy grin.   “Hey, what’s happening?” he called as Paige opened the van door.   He shrugged off his backpack and peered up at the van through his dusty round glasses.
    Paige gestured for PK Dirks to remain seated.   Her shoes crunched in the sand as the desert heat hit her full force.   “May I ask what you’re doing out here?   This is a restricted area.”
    “Told you we should have stayed away from the roads,” the pudgy woman said.
    “I’m Doog, and this is Tina and Geoff,” the tall man said with a grin.   “We didn’t expect to see anybody this far out past the gates.”
    “Neither did we,” said Paige dryly.   “Are you aware that unauthorized access here is a Federal offense.”
    Tina and Geoff exchanged nervous glances; Doog just shrugged and gave his goofy grin.   “We weren’t going to steal anything.   The Cold War is over, and you guys aren’t setting off any nukes anymore — so what do you have to hide?”   He waited with childlike anticipation for her answer.
    Paige shook her head, trying not to get irritated.   “That’s not the point, Mr., uh, Doog.   No Trespassing means No Trespassing .”
    Doog looked at his two companions, who both shrugged in surrender.   “We’re just taking a shortcut up to Groom Lake.   We figured it might be easier to get through the fence this way.   No chance of getting through on the Route 375 side.   Extraterrestrial Highway.”
    “Yeah,” said Tina, her eyes dark and intense.   “You know, Dreamland .”
    Doog said, “Groom Lake, Area 51 — that super-secret