FOR MY SHIP. I pass half a dozen black SUVs all speeding through the desert about five miles away from the perimeter of Dulce Base. I consider this fortuitous timing—if these are the FBI agents Mark mentioned, then they have indeed abandoned the place. Still, I have my reservations about this operation. It’s a bright morning, for one thing, meaning I can’t rely on the cover of night, and the memory of what happened the last time I tried to infiltrate this base is fresh in my mind. But I won’t get another opportunity like this. Who knows how long it will be before the Mogs or the rest of the FBI realize that no one at this base is responding? Besides, this time I’ve come prepared. I pause at a section of the fence surrounding the base that’s been destroyed and take out some of the gear from my backpack—thermal-imagine binoculars that can sense heat signatures through six inches of steel. Nothing pops up on them. At least nothing that reads as a human or Mog. There are a few fires and lights I can make out, but nothing that suggests anyone is patrolling the base.
