Black Ops in the High Desert

Its dark when we set off into the high desert, a sliver of moon riding high overhead. Even at this hour, the heat leeches out of the ground into the air and the thin line of light on the horizon shimmers in the haze. Two hours before dawn and we are at the perimeter.  At the base of the distant mountains we can see light. The patrols are frequent, but we know their pattern now, this isn't our first rodeo, but we are still cautious. Gila Flats holds its secrets jealously, the treasures hidden here are not intended to be seen, so most of the activity happens in the small hours, as the rest of the world sleeps. 

But not us, not this morning. Intel has reached us of a new development and we are keen to verify the source. Infrequent visits to the base have revealed a glimpse into what has been secured here and we have managed to procure covert imagery with our scopes of just what is being drawn out onto the runways as the sun begins to lighten the desert skies.

In the past we have gathered collateral on a variety of high performance aircraft, sleek and subtly finned, languishing like silver darts on the sun bleached tarmac, or sweating stealthy in coatings of radar reflective umber. But these have been more standard fare, most of what we have seen has now left the shadowy confines of the black hangars and can be seen regularly swooping over the base.

The mud-movers and the lifting bodies that have paved the way for the newest developments in aerodynamics, their service life limited by the efficacy and breadth of their developments and by the skills of the intrepid test pilots who fly them.

We have seen the bright glow of the afterburners and felt the rock shudder with the throb of subsonics, listened to the empty air cloven by the mach-splitting scream of rent physics overhead.

For this is the place where angels are born, where wings are spread and put to the task and heavens' own limits are penetrated.

The suns disc is not yet visible, but the sky warms to a ruddy pink beyond the surrounding mountains. We huddle close to the sand and adjust our ghillie suits accordingly, checking the tarps on the equipment as we rest our lenses on squat tripods before us. Across the desert floor, a sound crawls, deft and patient, felt more than heard and we see a flicker of movement near the low adobe huts on the valley floor. 

Shortly we will know if our patience will pay off, if our intel is good. The dawn breasts the lowest point of the horizon and a subtle glow reaches over the flats. A dark shape emerges from pools of shadow to slide towards the runway. We adjust our scopes accordingly, tension knotting our shoulders as we hear the quietened whirr of focussing software homing in on our target. 

The shape resolves slightly in the viewfinder and we see a black delta, thrice finned, edging into place on the tarmac. Collectively, we smile inwardly and wait patient as the decibels begin their slow climb into the infrasonic. The delta creeps forward with a quicksilver grace and our scopes pan smoothly to tack its race. Soon it will slip from our view as the pilot opens up the throttle, disappearing on its spiralling climb to the ether. The sound crests and the nose leaves the runway. with insolent ease, flowing into the air, effortless and etheric. With a final pulse of superheated air, it jets into the dawn haze. Satisfied, we settle back into the sand like lizards shunning the day, to prepare for our leaving, mission accomplished.