Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

EIGHT

Kurt scanned the perimeter of the lake and studied the water. He saw no one.

“Maybe they were abducted by aliens,” Joe said, glancing up at the sky.

Kurt cut his eyes at Joe.

“I’m not kidding,” Joe said. “I’ve been reading up on UFOs. Australia is a hotbed of sightings. And this is exactly the kind of place they love to frequent.”

“And me without my tinfoil hat,” Kurt said.

He glanced down at the arrangement of parked cars, thinking about the dead geese found near the Berkeley Pit. He wondered if some kind of poison gas had overcome the occupants.

He opened a cargo bin that sat between the two seats. A pair of compact oxygen tanks, each the size of a large thermos, sat upright in it. Two masks and an air sampler, designed to check for toxic levels of one hundred and seventy different airborne poisons, sat beside them.

“The Australian EPA lists this place as a danger,” Kurt said, “but only to the water table. The air is supposed to be clean. I figured we’d err on the side of caution.”

Kurt pulled out the sampler and switched it on as Joe checked the tanks for pressure.

Kurt cracked the window just enough to poke the nozzle through. After thirty seconds a green light flashed. “Air quality is okay. Better than Los Angeles in the summertime.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to keep checking,” Joe suggested.

Kurt nodded and took his foot off the brake.

The big truck began to coast down the long ramp, rolling slowly. When it reached the flat section by the parked cars, Kurt pulled in beside them and stopped.

A second green report from the air sampler gave Kurt some confidence.

He opened the door. It was deathly silent. There was no wind. No birds. No insects. Not a blade of grass or even a sprout of the hardiest weed grew on the poisoned shore.

“Desolate,” Joe whispered.

“I feel like we’re on the moon,” Kurt said, clipping the air sensor to his belt and grabbing one of the small oxygen tanks before stepping out of the truck.

As Joe climbed out the passenger door, Kurt eased over to the closest SUV. The tailgate was up. Several carbines stood untouched in a rifle rack while a pile of windbreakers that read ASIO in big block letters lay folded neatly in a box.

“Looks like they were planning a raid,” he whispered.

“A batch of test tubes over here,” Joe said, calling from beside one of the Jeeps. “Some of them are full of water. I’d say they were taking samples. The rest of this is sonar equipment. Maybe they went into the lake?”

Kurt looked forward. The poisoned lake sat undisturbed, reflecting the sky like a pane of dark glass. Kurt wondered if the bodies of the ASIO team were in there somewhere.

“They wouldn’t all go in,” he said. “Not by choice anyway.”

A fly buzzed past Kurt’s ear. The first sign of life he’d encountered since entering the pit. It zipped by him in one direction and then flew off into the distance again. A trickle of sweat ran down Kurt’s temple.

He glanced up toward the rim. Nothing there, nothing moving, no sign of struggle in front of them. Something was very wrong.

He pulled a rifle from the rack and slid a clip into place, racking the slide as quietly as he could.

Joe arrived beside Kurt. “You think someone bounced them?”

“If they did, it was the neatest ambush of all time,” Kurt said. “You see any bullet holes? Any blood?”

“Nope,” Joe said.

“Maybe you’re onto something with this UFO business. Grab a rifle just in case.”