Operation Indigo Sky

by Lawrence Ambrose

  I pushed the cart, which had developed an annoying squeak in one of the wheels, deeper into the dimly lit bowels of Sublevel 6. I arrived at a junction in the broad corridor, and followed it to the right.

  An electric cart driven by a dude around my age rolled into view. Here we go. He slowed to a stop, his smile more puzzled than suspicious.

  "Hi," he said. "Where are you headed?"

  "Hola. Estoy buscando las macinas..."

  "Sorry. No comprendo."

  "Clean machines?" I raised my hands in helpless confusion.

  "Oh. I think you got off on the wrong floor. This is mainly for storage and basic utility maintenance. Unless those are the machines you're talking about. I've never heard of anyone cleaning them."

  I listened and nodded with a dopey smile. "Si. You show me?"

  "Uh, well, why don't I call your supervisor?" He slipped out a two-way radio. "If you could tell me his or her name?"

  "Ramón."

  "Don't know him. I'll try Carl Billings at maintenance."

  Damn. I made myself appear unconcerned while I imagined choking him out and dragging him to some dark corner until I'd completed my mission. Except I didn't have a clear mission.

  "Billings." The radio crackled.

  "Hey, Carl. Dale Briggs here. I'm on SL 6 with a maintenance worker who seems to have lost his way." He eyed my name badge. "Carlos Santos."

  A few seconds ticked ominously by.

  "Yes," came the reply. "He's with Ramón Mendez's crew. They're working on SL 4, today. He shouldn't be down there."

  "Right. Looks like he got turned around. I'll send him back up."

  "Hold on. I'm going to check with Ramón. Maybe they're doing something I'm not aware of."

  Dale Briggs lowered the radio and smiled at me.

  "Gracias," I said. His eyes narrowed a little – maybe in response to my dubious Spanish accent. We stood there waiting, listening to something else that was non-existent: crickets.

  The radio beeped.

  "Hi," said Dale.

  "Ramón said he must've misunderstood the job," the maintenance supervisor said. "Just tell him to go back to SL 4, Dale."

  "Gotcha. Thanks." He inserted the radio into his tool belt. "I'm sure you heard, Carlos. You're supposed to be back up on SL 4."

  "Si. Lo comprendo."

  "Good." His smile slipped as he regarded me. "How long have you been working here, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Two years." I flipped my hand in rough approximation. "Un poco mas."

  "You wouldn't happen to have any identification on you?"

  I tapped my identification badge. Now nearly nothing remained of his smile.

  "No, I meant a driver's license."

  Christ. Maybe I'd have to punch or choke this guy out after all. I calculated the time I'd need to make it upstairs and out of the airport. Not all that long. I hated to do that, because aside from compromising my mission, Dale seemed like a nice guy.

  "Lo siento," I said. "I am sorry. My wallet is, ah, en casa. My wife say I olvido my own nombre." I gave him my best shit-eating grin.

  "You're saying you left it at home."

  "Si, Señor Dale."

  Dale stared at me for an additional moment before shaking his head. "Dude, you need to understand, this is a high security place. You can't just run around here without a driver's license, not in a post-9/11 world."

  Except that I was. But I forged a grave expression on my face, and lowered my head in shame.

  "I comprende. Please not report me, señor! Me familia me necesitan..."

  "I know." He raised his hands. "I'm not going to get you fired, Carlos. Just make sure you bring your driver's license with you from now on, okay?"

  "I will. Thank you."

  "No problemo." He dropped back down on his seat. "I gotta go. See you around, amigo."

  I stepped around to let him pass. He wasn't even bothering to escort me to the elevator. Trusting of him. But then I didn't exactly fit the profile of a terrorist. If he ran into me again down here, I knew broken English and cluelessness wouldn't save me.

  I watched Dale Briggs fade into the cavernous darkness, and thought: No guts, no glory. When would I ever have a better opportunity? What was the point of breaking into the airport if I was going to turn tail now and run back up to Sublevel 4? How well would I do in any investigation if I gave up this easily?

  As I was thinking, my feet voted: I shoved my cart at a fast jog down the right branch of the corridor away from the elevator, not knowing where I was going but wanting to get there fast. I liked the fact that it was getting darker and less obviously maintained the further I pushed into SL 6. The most likely area of interest would be as far removed from prying eyes as possible.

  I entered an open area where the conveyer assemblies of the now-defunct baggage system continued. I slipped in under them, now shrouded in shadows, and made my way to the far wall and a single steel door.

  My impression that this was no normal door increased as I approached. Though it had a normal rectangular shape, it was maybe fifty percent wider, and had a bank vault lever handle plus a biometric and digital keyboard lock. Total overkill for a storage locker.

  Had I located the mystery door BE64B? It bore no labels or numbers. Just a heavy steel door sunk into a cement wall.

  What would happen if I pressed any of the keys or placed my hand on the biometric pad? If this was truly a high security entrance, wouldn't that trip an alert? Or maybe – I looked around and at the tangle of equipment overhead – they had other security measures in place that I'd already tripped?

  At that moment I noticed something glint on the wall several meters above the door. My nape hairs performed a slow-standing salute. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but it looked like a tiny piece of glass to me. I could only think of one thing made of glass that would be attached to a cement wall over a secure door.

  Camera lens.

  That thought had barely burst in my brain when footfalls echoed in the adjoining corridor. Lots of footfalls. Running .

  Thinking fast, I did what any rugged, tough-guy Marine would do under the circumstances: grab a cloth and a bottle of 409 and start spraying and cleaning as if my life depended on it. I was wiping down the door handle when four buff dudes in grey coveralls sprinted up to me, pointing large handguns in my general direction. From the size of the pistols – their barrels looked big enough to accommodate my head at the moment – I guessed they were Heckler and Koch Mark23s. Not your garden variety police weapon issue. Standard issue for SEALs, however. I'd carried the M45 in Afghanistan, so I had a special appreciation for the .45 caliber.

  The men fanned out around me, centering me in their kill zone. I held up my hands – still clutching the cloth and spray bottle – not needing to work hard to concoct a terrified and bewildered expression.

  "Place your cleaning bottle and cloth back on the cart," one of the men ordered. "Slowly. Keep your hands where we can see them."

  "Yes." I complied in slow motion, and then stood with my hands raised. "No entiendo."

  The men inched closer, guns leveled, eyes hard and skeptical. These guys were "operators." Military or former military. Definitely not TSA or conventional police – not with those grey coveralls and their body language. The dude who'd spoken zoned in on my name badge.

  "What are you doing here, Carlos?" he asked.

  "Cleaning, señor."

  "Why are you cleaning here? Who requested it?"

  I gazed at him with helpless incomprehension.

  "Who is your boss?"

  I made my eyes light up in recognition. "Ah, si, Ramón. Ramón Mendez."

  A radio on the spokesman's tool belt beeped. He drew it from its holster.

  "Have you established contact?" a voice asked.

  "Affirmative. Contact appears to be a Hispanic male, a member of a cleaning crew."

  "Check him out."

  "Yes sir." He sheathed the radio, and extended one hand to me. "I'll
need to see your driver's license."

  I was really beginning to regret my lapse in not bringing Carlos's I.D. with me. Then again, he might not have agreed to that.

  "Lo siento, Señor," I said. "I leave home billetera...mi wallet."

  The spokesman and his companions exchanged "Is this clown serious?" looks. No one made any motion to lower their pistols. My innocent, Mexican laborer act wasn't winning any Oscars with these dudes. I was curious what part of the airport's security force they belonged to, but I wasn't about to ask.

  "Stand against the wall," he said. "Keep your hands on the wall. We're going to search you."

  "Search?"

  On a nod from the apparent leader, one man handed off his weapon and stepped in with an impatient air, latching onto my right arm and swinging me against the steel door. As he kicked my feet apart I suppressed my natural urge to break his grip and plant an elbow in his throat.

  While he patted me down with far more authority and precision than your standard TSA screener – not to mention with less lascivious intent - the leader made a call on his radio. I braced myself. Another inquiry to a maintenance supervisor would not end well. At this point, I couldn't see any inquiry ending well. He spoke with an unidentified person who was not Carl Billings, and since he didn't say "sir," it wasn't his superior. I guessed some branch of airport security.

  "What is happen?" I asked.

  "Just take it easy, hombre. Someone's coming to escort you upstairs."

  The men slipped their pistols inside their coveralls. As we waited, I strategized. I thought my best option was playing out the confused worker for as long as possible, and hope security wouldn't be suspicious enough to push it further. My last-ditch move was to reveal my tester identity. If that failed, I'd be arrested. After that, my best bet might be to throw myself at the mercy of the court as a conspiracy nut reporter who was just trying to dig up dirt in the sublevels. God knew how that would go. I might end up being Chelsea Manning's roommate.

  The pair of TSA guys who showed up five minutes later wore annoyed expressions, but their body language was relaxed. They carried no weapons. Things were looking up.

  "Carlos," the older of the two addressed me. "What do you think you're doing down here?"

  I offered a mournful shrug. "I thought I was needing to wash..."

  The older man stopped me with a raised hand and a weary nod. I could almost read the thought-balloon "Dumb Mexican" floating over his head.

  "All right. Never mind. But you'll need to come with us now and we'll be sending you home early. We take security seriously here, Carlos. We can't have people without proper identification waltzing around the airport. When you return tomorrow, make sure you stop by Airport Security to show us that you have full identification."

  Huh. I wondered if I was imagining what I was hearing. They were really going to let me walk out of here with barely a tap on my wrist?

  Ramón was waiting for me on the main level, looking pretty pissed off. The two security dudes released me into his custody. Ramón stood there glowering until the security pair had moved beyond hearing range.

  "You are trying to get me fired?" he hissed under his breath. "What kind of test is that going to the sixth level?"

  I shrugged. "Just part of the drill."

  "I do not care. Leave here and do not contact me again. I will return part of your money, if you wish."

  "That's okay. I don't think I can do anymore here now anyway." I held out my hand. "Sorry about the trouble. Thanks for your help."

  He shook my hand reluctantly.

  "Tell Carlos to come back to work and act like nothing happened. And to make sure to bring his driver's license."

  "I will tell him."

  Only after I was out of the parking lot did I allow myself a deep, shuddering breath of relief.

  You'd think after going through a firefight where death was imminent – seeing your friends wounded and even killed – that dodging a figurative bullet by airport security would be no big deal. But in the thick of things back in Afghanistan, I rarely worried about survival – not until I was a short-timer, and every moment suddenly seemed pregnant with risk. I had this nightmare that after making it back I'd be struck by a drunk driver or maybe even lightning in a parking lot. Life suddenly seemed incredibly fragile and precious and fraught with danger.

  That paranoia had eventually passed, but in the last few days – since picking up that canister, really – some of those same emotions had returned. I'd had it made in some nice, calm, predictable job, but here I was, putting my life on the line again for a noble cause. Did I have a death wish or something?

  Back at home base, I told Markus and Lilith what had gone down.

  "These armed men," said Markus. "How would you assess them?"

  "I'd guess they were former military. Maybe some branch of special forces. Mark 23 .45s are standard-issue SEAL handguns. Also, they're ridiculously expensive, so generally only military or ex-military carry them."

  "Interesting," said Markus.

  "On the other hand, they didn't see through my act, which I'd expect top operators to do. I'd rate them as high-level guards, not an elite strike force."

  "Perhaps. But the camera over the door and the speed and deadliness of their response is rather suggestive."

  "I'd say so. Not that it proves that was the secret door to an underground base."

  "Such proofs are difficult to come by."

  I didn't object when Markus poured us both a stiff vodka cranberry drink – his personal favorite – and bade me join him in the living room while Lilith started preparations for another spectacular culinary display. I guessed this was one lady future neuroscientist who wouldn't mind a regular place in the kitchen.

  "On a more positive note," said the professor, "we do have some definitive results on the canister. Just as we expected, it contained residues of aluminum, strontium, barium, and" – he frowned over his drink – "something else. That something else is what delayed their report. An expert in microbiology was brought in to assess that."

  I eased forward in my seat. "You found something biological?"

  "Yes. We're still in the preliminary stages of analysis, but it appears to be some unknown form of fungus. Our expert believes it's bioengineered."

  "Bioengineered to do what?" Lilith broke in, coming over with a glass of wine.

  "Good question. But we found something even stranger: the fungus appears to be imbedded into some form of microchip."

  "You're kidding," I said.

  "It wouldn't be the first time, of course, that the government has tested viral agents on the populace through a spraying program, but this combination is exotic, to put it mildly."

  "I doubt it's a test," said Lilith. "I think it's designed to harm people."

  "Morgellons?" I asked.

  "Possible," Markus answered with a shrug. "The hypothesis has been proposed that Morgellons is fungal, though we have little by way of confirmation."

  "Do you have any idea what this chip is supposed to do?" Lilith asked.

  "Nothing certain. We hope to answer that in the days to come."

  We drank in silence for a while. After several days with the Killians, I was starting to feel like family. Not one of those close families where everyone talks freely and shares things. Dr. Killian was a generous host - I had the run of his house and property (excluding his private study), and shared in some of the meals – but the professor was a man of depths he mostly didn't care to share. And he and Lilith seemed to be perpetually at odds in some subtle, unstated way.

  Lilith remained mostly aloof, which was fine by me. I understood the skepticism many if not most beautiful women feel toward men. Who wants to be just liked for their face and body? At the same time, like most beautiful women who complain about being "objectified," they don't hesitate to use their wares to gain advantage. Lilith obviously liked fucking with my mind with her skimpy outfits and occasional provocative poses, and I sensed her annoyance when I
didn't take the bait. I knew the moment I did, she'd crush me like a loathsome bug. I took pride in preventing her from realizing that pleasure and in knowing how the game is played.

  That said, I actually kind of liked her cool, brainy skepticism. We might become actual friends if and when she accepted that I wouldn't be falling under her spell.

  "So what's next on the investigative menu?" I asked Markus.

  "Perhaps something a bit less risky and more aboveground," he replied with a smile. "We're curious about shopping malls that are going up all around the United States that seem to be incorporating prison facility features."

  "The malls with guard towers?" I hadn't put much stock in the internet speculations about malls being constructed for FEMA camp purposes. "You think there's actually something to that?"

  "It's been suggested that the federal government's plan to build detention centers openly was stymied by growing alternative press coverage." Markus offered another professorial shrug. "Shopping malls are a covert method of achieving that same end. The malls can serve their usual purpose – being economically self-sufficient – until such time as they're needed for detention purposes. Our architects say conversion would be fairly simple and could be accomplished in a matter of days."

  "If that's true, the property owners should be tied to the government in some way," I said. "The DHS's partnership with sports arenas is public knowledge."

  "Not to mention Wal-Mart," said Lilith.

  "We have tried to get someone inside a Wal-Mart undergoing 'remodeling', but thus far have failed. Not surprisingly, perusing the public property records hasn't shown any government ties."

  "Do you have any particular shopping malls or Wal-Marts in mind?"

  "A Wal-Mart just shut down for repairs in Brookings, South Dakota, and a new shopping mall is being erected on the outskirts of Sioux Falls. They're only sixty or so miles apart, which is convenient. The Wal-Mart's roof is being ringed with concertina wire. Wal-Mart claims it's to protect copper wire from thieves."