by James Barney
There was silence for several seconds before McCreary’s voice came on the line. “Where’s that, Michael?”
“On the other side of Beury’s Ridge. Near an abandoned branch line that connected Fire Creek to the Thurmond depot. The entrance is actually to an older mine called Foster Number Two. I noticed it last night on an old U.S. Bureau of Mines map from 1919 that turned up in my search. Back then, all these mines were operated by the New River Coal Company, and it looks like some of them got interconnected at some point.”
“Where are you, Michael?” asked McCreary with rising concern in his voice.
“I’m, uh . . . standing at the entrance to Foster Number Two.”
On the other side of Beury Mountain, McCreary motioned frantically for the radiological control technician to stop the ATV. The technician complied and brought the vehicle to a skidding halt on the gravel road. They were about a mile from the guard station.
“Michael, listen to me,” said McCreary sternly. “Do not go in there, understand?”
There was silence on the line.
“Michael?”
Silence.
“Listen to me. The radiation levels could be sky high down there. Not to mention toxic gases, the lack of oxygen, cave-ins . . . snakes. Michael, are you listening to me?”
Silence.
“Shit,” McCreary hissed, transmitting that sentiment over the radio. He motioned for the driver to continue.
A short time later, Ana Thorne came on the line. “Bill, you still there?”
McCreary shouted above the noise of the ATV, which was bumping violently along the gravel road. “Yeah, I’m heading back to the guard station. You heard anything from Michael yet?”
“No, but something else has come up. They just found that stolen car. The one from last night.”
“Where?”
There was a short pause. “Frostburg, Maryland. At a motel right off Highway 68. The local police have it under surveillance right now.”
“Tell them not to move in until we say so.”
“Already did that.”
“How soon can you get there?”
Another pause. “About three hours, driving.”
“No good.” McCreary thought for a moment, weighing his options. Then he pressed the transmit button and said, “Tell the state police we need their chopper. If they give you any flak, have Admiral Armstrong make a call . . . to the governor if necessary. I’ll meet you at police headquarters in thirty minutes.”
“Got it.”
“And tell the Frostburg police that if they see this guy, they are to follow him closely but don’t engage him.”
“Understood.”
McCreary waited for the voice-activated feature to time out. Then he turned to the ATV driver and shouted: “Can’t this damn thing go any faster?”
18
BEURY MOUNTAIN, WEST VIRGINIA
Califano knew he shouldn’t go into the mine. Among other concerns, his only source of light was a small aluminum LED flashlight attached to his key chain. Hardly the type of equipment one needed to explore an abandoned coal mine.
He stared into the blackness of the mine entrance for several minutes, earnestly debating whether to go in. The entrance was a rectangular hole, about five feet high and eight feet wide, which had been cut directly into the moss-covered stone face of the mountain. The remnants of a wooden frame and two wooden handrails could still be seen, although the majority of the wooden structure lay in a jumble of half-rotted six-by-six timbers that partially blocked the entrance.
Califano had heard all of McCreary’s warnings about the potential dangers inside the mine. In fact, Califano had almost talked himself out of going in, mainly because of the snakes. But that was before something interesting caught his eye.
To the left of the entrance, near the tangle of fallen timbers, Califano spotted a single cigarette butt on the ground. He approached, picked it up, and inspected it closely in the morning sunlight. The tiny gold letters around the circumference of the filter spelled CHESTERFIELD. Do they even make those anymore? He pinched the cigarette lightly between his thumb and finger and noted that it was a bit soggy, though still round and firm. Which meant it hadn’t been exposed to the elements for very long. Indeed, the butt still contained tobacco and a bit of light gray ash at the end. From that, he deduced that it had been smoked very recently, probably within the past few days.
He put the butt in his coat pocket and inched closer to the mine entrance. A single question was now running through his mind: If Dr. Holzberg had escaped from the lab through this abandoned mine shaft, did that prove the mine was safe? Not necessarily, he concluded. Holzberg could have had breathing equipment, although Califano somehow doubted it. The more significant problem was that there were multiple passages through the mine, and just because Holzberg had apparently found one safe passage, that did not mean they were all safe.
“Screw it,” said Califano under his breath. The only way he was going to find out the truth about the Thurmond lab was to investigate it himself. He energized his tiny LED flashlight and carefully made his way through the tangle of wooden beams. He paused for a few seconds on the other side, then ducked into the mine entrance.
It was cold and damp inside, as he’d expected. Califano halted about six feet inside the entrance, where a few rays of sunlight still managed to filter in from outside. He inspected the walls and ceiling in the broken sunlight and noted that they were made of solid rock, roughly hewn by explosives more than a century ago, but still in excellent shape. He was surprised to find that he could actually stand up inside the mine shaft. In fact, in most places, there was nearly a foot of clearance above his head. Satisfied with the mine’s structural integrity, he turned and began making his way down the gently descending ingress shaft of Foster Number 2.
In less than a minute, the entrance behind him was completely out of sight, and the last remaining rays of sunlight were gone. He was now engulfed in the cold and absolute darkness of the subterranean tunnel, which smelled strongly of dank water and sulfur. As his senses gradually acclimated to this new environment, a nagging concern began percolating through his mind: I’m screwed if I get lost.
For nearly twenty minutes, Califano navigated the ingress shaft by the glow of his LED flashlight, which provided a surprisingly good level of visibility. As he walked, he pictured in his mind the 1919 Bureau of Mines survey of Foster Number 2. Although he’d only scanned the survey for a few seconds last night, his photographic memory allowed him to “look” at it again, pulling up many of the details in his mind. He recalled that the mine ran generally southeast, with a long, straight ingress shaft that split into more than a dozen parallel shafts about a mile into the mountain. Of those, the southernmost shaft was the most logical place for there to be an unmapped connector to the Thurmond mine.
Eventually, Califano reached a three-way intersection. His memory told him to turn right, which he did. Then, fifty yards later, he reached another intersection—a T. Left or right? He struggled for several seconds to visualize this particular intersection on the Bureau of Mines survey, but he couldn’t. The survey was not ingrained firmly enough in his mind to access this level of detail. Without a clear map, he knew he would need a consistent plan to avoid getting lost. He decided that, at each T intersection, he would always turn right, which should send him northwest. If he didn’t reach a left turn before coming to the end of the shaft, he would reverse direction until he reached a right turn. This method should eventually get him to the southernmost mine shaft. At least he hoped it would.
For the next forty minutes, this method worked reasonably well, although it required him to backtrack many times. He noticed along the way that the mine always seemed to go slightly downhill in the southeast direction and slightly uphill in the northwest direction. He assumed this was because the coal seam itself slanted in this fashion. Whatever the reason, this observation proved enormously helpful in navigating the crisscrossing patchwork of shaft
s.
After nearly an hour, he had finally reached the thirteenth and southernmost shaft. He stood at the T intersection for a moment and was just about to turn right, in accordance with his plan, when something unexpected happened.
He saw a flicker of light.
It occurred very quickly, about fifty yards away—just a brief flash of white light, as if someone had flicked the beam of a flashlight quickly across the wall.
And there it was again.
Califano froze and immediately clicked off his own light. Seconds later, he saw another flicker of light, as if someone was walking with a flashlight down a long tunnel that intersected with the one he was standing in. He tucked his flashlight into his pocket and slowly pulled out his Glock 9 millimeter from its holster and released the safety.
The white light was growing brighter now, the beam playing back and forth across the rough stone face of the tunnel wall. Califano could now hear footsteps and muffled voices down the passageway. Someone was coming. Judging from the voices, there were at least two of them. And they were close.
Califano quickly took stock of his situation, and it wasn’t good. If he entered the thirteenth shaft and turned left, he’d be illuminated as soon as the approaching strangers reached the same shaft and rounded their corner to the right. If he tried to make it past the T intersection before they arrived, to put himself on the other side of their right turn, he’d risk being seen momentarily in the beam of their approaching light, which now resembled a theater spotlight on the far wall.
That left only one choice: retreat.
Califano quickly turned and ran in the opposite direction from which he’d just come, retracing his steps to the twelfth shaft, approximately fifty yards away. He ran in total darkness with one hand outstretched because he knew eventually he’d . . .
Bam! And there it was. He hit the wall hard with his left hand, elbow, and shoulder and winced in silent pain. A few loose stones fell to the ground around him, and he held his breath as the gentle clacking sounds echoed throughout the shaft. When the noise subsided, he turned quickly and listened for the approaching voices. They still seemed to be conversing in the same muffled tones as before. They hadn’t heard him. Just then, he saw reflected light bouncing toward the cross-connecting shaft he’d just traversed.
He had to move. But which way? On instinct, he darted left, heading southeast and slightly downhill along the twelfth shaft. He knew this would lead to a dead end, but that was exactly what he wanted. If the approaching strangers knew the mine layout, they would presumably be turning northwest—away from him. With luck, they wouldn’t see him at the far end of the shaft.
Califano reached the dead end of shaft twelve, then turned and squatted low, waiting for the strangers to arrive. For several tense minutes, he watched as the bouncing white light grew brighter and brighter at the other end of the shaft. During this time, he gradually became aware of a throbbing pain in his temples—a headache that he’d failed to notice before. He found himself longing for an aspirin. Or, better yet, a whole handful. It annoyed him that something as trivial as a headache was interfering with his concentration at this crucial moment.
The voices were growing louder now. Califano could almost make out some of their words, although it was hard to concentrate with his head throbbing so badly. Jesus, he thought, shaking his head. Again, he pushed the discomfort aside. He had to focus.
He thought he heard one of the voices say: “Skolko?”
“Shest minut,” said a second voice in what sounded like Russian.
As Califano tried to process this information, his head continued pounding like a bass drum. Who are these men, and what are they doing down here? And why are they speaking Russian?
“Bystryee,” said the first man in Russian.
By now, Califano’s headache had given way to full-blown dizziness. Something is seriously wrong with me, he realized. It was at that exact moment that he remembered where he was: in the southeast corner of the mine, at the lowest spot. Suddenly, two terrifying words jumped to the forefront of his mind, cutting through the throbbing pain.
Black damp.
Califano had no sooner formed that thought than two large figures suddenly emerged at the T intersection, their shapes fuzzy behind the blinding lights of their miners’ hats. In the glare, Califano thought he saw them wearing full-body jumpsuits . . . and gas masks.
Suddenly, he could no longer focus on anything. My God, my head! He winced in pain. And then, a second later, he lost his balance and slumped backward against the rock wall with a grunt.
“Vy slyshali eto?” said one of the men through an ampflier in his gas mask. Both men stopped and trained their blinding lights toward the dead end of the shaft, where Califano’s body was now lying flat on the ground. One of them pushed a clip into his automatic weapon. The unmistakable metallic click echoed ominously throughout the space.
For several seconds the men’s lights washed all over the rough stone wall at the far end of shaft twelve. Califano’s limp body, however, was positioned perfectly within the narrow shadow at the base of the wall created by the shaft’s natural downward slope. His prone position made him invisible to the searchlights.
After a long while, the second man said, “Poidem. Tam ne mnogo vreni.” And the lights began moving away.
Califano barely heard these final words as he drifted toward unconsciousness. He felt the blood draining from his brain. This is it. The end. As everything slowly went dark around him, an image of his mother and sister appeared in his mind. They were smiling and carefree, the way he always liked to remember them. Like angels. His father, of course, wasn’t in the picture at all. Which was also how he liked to remember things.
A moment later, his entire world went black.
19
FROSTBURG, MARYLAND
The state police helicopter set down gracefully in a grass field near Route 40, about half a mile north of Interstate 68. Ana Thorne was the first to emerge from the shiny blue-and-gold chopper. Across the field, she immediately spotted a police officer standing by a parked cruiser on the side of the road, emphatically waving her over. “Looks like our ride’s here,” she yelled to Bill McCreary, who had just finished easing his hefty frame out of the chopper.
“Good,” said McCreary. “Let’s go.” He broke into a slow jog across the field.
Ana smiled at the sight of McCreary jogging. She hesitated a moment before quickly catching up with him, her long athletic strides putting his lopsided, lumbering gait to shame. They reached the police cruiser half a minute later.
The police officer was tall and lanky, dressed in the khaki-and-brown uniform of the Allegany County Sheriff’s Office. He appeared anxious. “You guys from the FBI?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said McCreary, breathing heavily and wheezing.
“Hop in. I’ll take you over.”
Ten minutes later, they arrived in the parking lot of the Huntsman Motel and pulled up next to a brown SUV with a gold sheriff’s star on the door. The SUV was parked in a remote corner of the lot, away from the view of most of the rooms. Several police officers in khaki-and-brown uniforms were clustered around the sheriff’s SUV, and they watched with tremendous interest as McCreary and Thorne emerged from the cruiser. They seemed especially interested in Ana Thorne.
“About damn time,” said a heavyset man in a tight uniform and a wide-brimmed hat. He broke out of the group and introduced himself as Walter Fitch, the Allegany County sheriff.
McCreary cut right to the chase. “What room’s he in?”
“Room 132,” replied Fitch.
“What do you know about him?” McCreary asked.
Fitch looked annoyed by McCreary’s rapid-fire questions. “Can I, uh . . . see some identification?”
McCreary and Thorne both flashed their fake FBI badges and waited for the sheriff to inspect them.
“Right,” said Fitch after a while. “So, we got a tip from the store clerk next door, who saw the APB flash ac
ross her computer screen this morning. Said a man came into her store about three A.M. Same description as the carjacking suspect. Long gray hair and beard, long fingernails, midsixties. According to her, he looked like a homeless guy. Filthy and kind of . . . disoriented. He bought a bunch of personal hygiene items like fingernail clippers, razors, and so forth. And he bought some food, cigarettes, and several newsmagazines.”
“Did he say anything unusual to her?” asked Ana.
“No, she didn’t mention him saying anything unusual. In fact, she said he sounded kind of smart. Bought his stuff, said thank you, and left. She did say, though, that he seemed really interested in the magazines and newspapers in the back. ‘Mesmerized,’ I think was the word she used.”
Thorne and McCreary glanced at each other.
“How’d he pay?” Ana asked.
“Cash. Two fifty-dollar bills. We checked them out. They’re genuine.”
“We’ll need to get those from you,” said Ana. “What about the car?”
“Right over there.” The sheriff pointed to a blue Chevy Impala with West Virginia plates that was parked, front in, about forty yards away. “Tags match. Broken driver’s-side window. Owner’s registration was in the glove compartment. It’s definitely the same car.”
“Wait. You went through it already?” said McCreary, unable to disguise his surprise.
Exasperation flashed across Fitch’s face. “Yeah, we went through it, okay? We’ve been here since nine thirty this morning. Worked this scene for nearly an hour before we even knew you guys were involved. In fact, we were just about to bust down this guy’s door when I got the call from HQ to back off. Been waiting here ever since.”
McCreary nodded calmly, but he was not happy. Jesus, he thought. The car’s right in front of the guy’s room. You think he might have noticed you rifling through it? He kept these thoughts to himself. “What did you find in the car?” he asked.
