by Byron Craft
“This is ridiculous,” protested Congressman Stream.
Still, on his hands and knees, Alan scooped up the last of his papers. “If you build on that site,” he said in a panicked rush of words, “the results may be hazardous.”
Captain Eastwater looked down at Alan Ward, but his words were directed at the Congressman. “The only ‘things’ that are unusual about the area are a few faults in the earth. At this very moment, we have a geotechnical team and a detachment of seabees out there taking seismograph readings.
Ironwood quickly recognized that it was time for Alan to leave. They had left the conference room door open, and their raised voices must have carried down the hall. A First Class Petty Officer stood large and menacing in the open doorway. A nightstick hung from his belt and just below his left shirt pocket was the badge and star signifying his MA rating, Master at Arms. Another Petty Officer appeared from behind to investigate the commotion. Alan saw them, too.
CHAPTER 5
SINKHOLE
Gwendolyn Gilhooley touched the red wire to the positive pole of the twelve-volt battery. One hundred yards in front of her, the desert floor thumped with the force of several light explosions. Pieces of the ground kicked upward into the morning sky. The heavier clumps of dirt quickly attained maximum velocity, then rained straight down while some of the lighter, finer sand particles drifted eastward before settling back to earth.
Gwen stood and slapped the sand off her NWU, otherwise known as a Navy Work Uniform. They had only been one pound charges, six in all wired in series. They reminded her of a string of firecrackers going off on the Fourth of July. Only this fireworks display wasn’t colorful, and most of the report were muffled by three feet of Mojave sand. She enjoyed blowing things up. It was the only thing she liked about her job. She guessed that it was the unrestrained child within her that got a kick out of it. While most of the little girls she grew up with were playing with Barbie dolls, she was blasting apart Revell plastic model replicas of Messerschmitts and Zeros’ with well-placed cherry bombs.
Gwen smiled and looked over at Dr. Willet. Virtual arms on his seismograph’s flat screen waived back and forth drawing tight digital lines. The video read out recorded the same shock waves onto its hard drive. Nothing would be lost.
They had been at it all morning and, would more than likely, be there for the rest of the week. The afternoon sun was too hot to work under, so they put in their time from sun up until about 11:00 a.m. Gwen had spent much of her childhood growing up in Florida where the summers are very hot and humid. There the heat grabs at you the moment you step out of doors. But in the dry Mojave summers it sneaks up on you, and you do not realize how hot it is until you have stepped out of it and into some shade or you pass out.
For the past three days, Gwen had bored a half a dozen holes at a time in the ground with a mobile drill, planted her charges and detonated them on Willet’s signal. Then Willet and his group of geologists would busy themselves collecting their data until they picked another spot.
Three weeks earlier, she had drilled Seventy-five holes twenty feet deep in the area obtaining seventy-five separate core samples. She had then cataloged each strata formation creating a geodetic map of the site and reported the information to Captain Eastwater. Now she was back to the same desolate area with a team of geologists making a seismic map of the site. She didn’t know what the Navy was going to build out here, but she knew it must be hot. It had to be something really special, or they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.
Gwen was bored. The placing and detonating of the charges was very simple. It was a one-person operation. Professor Willet and his three-man crew would mark six areas in the sand precisely fifteen-feet apart with orange spray paint. She would then back the single axle flatbed truck with its drill tower mounted on the rear up to each spot and punch a three-foot-deep hole in the ground approximately six inches in diameter. The drill, powered by the PTO (Power Take Off) of the truck, was tilted up and aligned properly. Gwen would disengage the drive shaft from the transmission, using the transfer case inside the cab, and connect it to the drilling rig using two additional gear shift levers located on the truck’s floor. Once the holes were drilled, Gwen lined each one with a four-inch diameter cardboard tube. She kept a supply of these in twelve-foot lengths strapped to the side of her truck. The tubes helped them gauge and maintain the size of each hole, making sure all were at the same depth. It also kept the sand from drifting back in.
The charges came next. Gwen was normally accustomed to using 2-1/2, five and ten-pound charges when blasting through ledge rock or large boulders but she was using only one-pound of blasting gel per hole for the seismic tests. That was all that was needed. Just enough to send a shock wave through the earth so Willet and his boys could detect any possible voids or faults in the earth that might spell unsuitable subsoil conditions and cause problems during construction. So far, they had turned up a big zero. After loading up each cardboard cylinder with a one-pound charge, back filling each with a few shovels full of earth and detonating, the ground appeared to be solid. Of course, she could have told them that. After all, she had just honeycombed the area with seventy-five soil borings.
The blasting gel was tightly encased in a heavy plastic wrap and formed into a tubular shape that was twisted shut at both ends and crimped in place with thin aluminum rings.
“Looks like Jimmy Dean pork sausage,” observed Willet that morning while looking over her shoulder.
Gwen hadn’t said anything but shot him a sarcastic frown instead. The forty plus geologist had got the hint and shuffled back to his equipment looking like a hurt schoolboy. Gwen felt bad about that and decided to apologize to him later for her behavior. She was unhappy with her assignment, and she took it out on the guy with a Ph.D.
Gwen had a degree herself, in civil engineering and still hadn’t made it past Petty Officer Second Class. And, on top of everything, her CO had assigned her to geological services. She had been trained to design and plan for roads, parking lots and large earth moving projects, not to be a geotechnical engineer. Most of the time she was just a pickup and drop off service for the guys at the Michelson Lab. She would run and pick up samples for them or drill for core samples as she had done a few weeks ago. Only occasionally, she would get to blow things up.
Gwen had majored in commercial and residential infrastructure at school. Her dream was to someday design the roads, sewers and drainage systems for housing developments and commercial projects.
Gwen was a Navy brat. Her father was a retired Chief Petty Officer, and she was proud that she had joined up immediately after completing high school. Her parents had been simple, hardworking blue-collar people and she had inherited their work ethic. She had hoped to gain a lot of practical field experience in the Navy, put in her twenty years and retire from the service when she was 38. With a pension to back her up, Gwendolyn dreamed of starting her an engineering firm. She had also hoped to snare herself a good man on the way. So far, at 26 years of age, neither plan was going well.
At medium height, Gwen was endowed with an excellent figure and a face to match. She wore subtle makeup, and every lock of her short, blond hair was in place. She always thought that her figure was among her best physical attribute though. God, she thought, had given her a little extra when she had been standing in line for body parts. She had a slim, athletic body, narrow hips, and a 44-inch bust line. The combination was uncommon, but she carried it well. Some of the women she went through boot camp with used to kid her saying that even though Gilhooley might not be at attention, her chest always was.
Gwen Gilhooley was miffed. She should have everything going for her, but she was unable to attract the right kind of guy. For some reason, mysterious to her or maybe she knew but didn’t want to admit it, she had trouble attracting men. Her career in the Navy was going nowhere. Her parents lived in San Diego now. They couldn’t keep her dad away from the shipyards. With them so far away, it only added to her l
oneliness.
Disconnecting the red and black wires from the battery, Gwen started to roll them up over hand and elbow. Her shirt had wilted hours ago and had glued itself to the small of her back. She could feel the perspiration soaking past her hips. It was getting late. The sun was high in the sky.
“How many does that make?” inquired Willet.
“What?” she said, not understanding his question at first; being lost in thought.
“How many sets have we done this morning?” he returned a bit impatiently.
He had been referring to the number of times they had bored holes and set off charges. “Six,” she answered.
“All right then,” he replied with the wave of a hand, “We do one more before calling it a day.”
“Damn,” she whispered to herself. “This shore duty sure wasn’t stacking up right.”
Gwen walked to the exploded area winding up the last few feet of wire. The flat terrain was white with alkaline, and barren but for a few sagebrush and a stubble of creosote brush. Off in the distance heat illusions combined with occasional dust devils. The sand felt hot through the soles of her boots. She saw Willet scratch his head and stare down at his seismograph with a puzzled look on his face. She became aware of a vibration, a rumbling sound. She scanned the horizon expecting to see an A-10 coming in low getting ready to buzz them. It was a common practice with the Navy flyboys; they liked to scare the hell out of the construction and engineering crews whenever they got a chance. Anticipating the sonic boom, she cupped both hands over her ears and searched the great blue bowl of sky. There was no plane in sight, and the rumbling kept growing stronger. Then, suddenly she couldn’t feel the sand beneath her feet anymore. She was sinking, falling.
***
Dr. Marinus Bicknell Willett looked up from the yellow contour lines that raced across the seismograph screen in time to see Gwendolyn Gilhooley drop out of sight beneath the tumbleweed.
CHAPTER 6
THE TUNNEL
Ironwood watched from his window seat as the blades of the Sikorsky helicopter sliced noisily at the afternoon sky, kicking up the sand and setting them down softly on the ground.
Moments after touching down Turco jumped up from his seat, slid back the big side door with a heavy clang, and stood at attention alongside the opening. A blast of desert heat and sand pelted the interior of the helicopter. Ironwood felt as if they had landed on an alien world.
Eastwater hadn’t wasted any time either. He was out of his seat only seconds later taking his place beside Turco.
Hawkins and Stream marched down the aisle and past Ironwood. From his seat, Ironwood had a good view of the open door. As the rotors slowed, Hawkins sat himself down on the door sill and swung out his legs. A seaman, wearing a paper breather mask and goggles, ran under the whirling vanes and helped him down. The Admiral struggled to keep his hat in place, ducked low, and allowed himself to be escorted from the aircraft. Squinting hard against the flurry of sand, the Congressman and Eastwater slipped over the edge of the sill aided by two more men with insect faces and followed Hawkins.
Ironwood wasn’t in the mood to eat sand. He waited until the vanes of the helicopter stopped turning and the manmade sand storm subsided. The Professor stole a look at Turco, observing that the young ensign had stayed behind as well. He still stood at attention holding the door, only back a few steps from the opening shielding himself from the gale force wind and sand. Ironwood winked at him and was surprised to see a grin disrupt his wooden features.
The blades of the Sikorsky slowed to a halt. Outside it truly became the calm after a storm. The last granules of sand settled to earth and from his window Ironwood could discern the circular pattern they had left in the sand. The desert floor beneath and around them had been wiped clean and flat. About fifty feet away the sand had drifted up some to form a slight berm that surrounded their landing site with perfect symmetry. If someone discovered this area after they had left, he wondered, would they think that a UFO had once landed here? It made him think of those farms in England where large uniform circles had been found mysteriously cut into the wheat fields. He was sure there was a logical explanation for them as there would be for the mystified and hypothetical discoverer of the Sikorsky helicopter markings
Ironwood unfastened his seat belt and went to the exit. No one came to his assistance. There wasn’t anyone in sight from that side of the aircraft. Ironwood planted his backside firmly on the door sill, looked up and to his right at the wooden Turco. “No help from below,” Ironwood said, more to the air than to the ensign. “I guess that’s reserved for the top brass. We must be nonessential personnel.”
Turco wasn’t smiling anymore. He stared expressionlessly at the desert expanse. With a shrug, the professor jumped down the remaining three feet and landed softly on the sand.
The helicopter loomed over him. He half expected the armor plating on the fuselage to ripple with life and the thing, imbued with a supernatural spirit, to gobble him up as if it was a dragonfly and he a tiny mosquito.
Ironwood looked over his shoulder. A light breeze dusted the deck of the aircraft with a fine spray of sand. Turco looked down from the belly of the flying machine but made no move to leave. Evidently, it was the Ensign's job to stay with the ship.
The sun felt hot on the back of his neck. As he walked away from the metal dragonfly, it made him feel stranger still that his were the only footprints leading away. The prints of the others had already been erased by the churning of the desert floor. He never ceased to marvel at the power and technology that human’s created, but the true marvel to him was that the large circular footprint of the Sikorsky would also be obliterated by the next whim of nature. A simple dust storm in the evening and all traces would be gone by morning.
Standing on the outer edge of the Sikorsky footprint, beyond the reach of the blades, he picked up the trail of Hawkins, Eastwater and Stream and their attendants heading south to where four vehicles stood parked in a circle. There was a large Ford diesel truck with a drilling rig mounted on the back, a six-wheel drive troop transport, a Dodge van and a small, lightweight Dodge pickup truck. All had been painted the standard white bearing the Naval Weapons Center’s logo on their doors except the transport. It was gray, Navy gray. There was ample military here, Ironwood noted. Around the other side of the transport was a fifth vehicle, a blue Ford Taurus with rental plates.
The rear doors of the Dodge van stood open, and a canvas awning was stretched overhead with the back portion fastened to the rear end of a roof mounted luggage rack and the other to two metal poles stuck in the sand. Underneath, shielded from the fierce rays of the afternoon sun, was an assortment of bulky electronic equipment stacked on top of each other. One piece, observed Ironwood, the one on top, looked like a seismograph. The canvas awning flapped in the breeze accompanied by the similar sound made by the canvas sides and roof of the transport. The troop carrier, resembling a modern day Conestoga covered wagon, tugged at Ironwood’s fondness for old westerns. The brief bit of magic was interrupted by the sound of static. A young man, tall and handsome and wearing the insignia of a lieutenant, stood outside the transport, leaning against the driver’s side door talking on a field radio. The young officer was too far away for Ironwood to make out what he was saying.
At first, Ironwood thought that they had placed the trucks and car in a circle in hopes of blocking the wind and creating some shade, but then his attention was drawn to something metallic gleaming in the sun within the center of the circle.
He wasn’t the only one attracted to it. Eastwater and Stream stood near its center staring down at the object. The two seamen, out of their goggles and filter masks, stood alongside.
They all had been hustled onto the Sikorsky shortly after Vice Admiral Hawkins had received a hand delivered message and not more than an hour and a half after Alan had been hustled off the base by the two petty officers. Ironwood had been asked to come along, but there was something in Hawkins’ voice that had c
autioned him not to refuse.
“Come on along,” Hawkins said. “You will find this interesting.” The admiral didn’t volunteer the contents of the message, let alone the whereabouts of their destination but when the chopper eventually landed Ironwood had the feeling that he was overlooking the future site of his “project.”
Walking ankle deep in the bermed-up sand the professor came into earshot of the lieutenant on the radio, “Roger,” he said after keying the microphone. “That’s a good idea, Mingo. Better make it two 1500 foot runs of cable but not the small generator, I want the Detroit Diesel, and send those big lights we used last month when we did the nighttime paving.”
“Roger Lieutenant,” a voice with a Spanish accent mixed with static answered back, “Anything else sir?”
“Yes, bring yourself along with that equipment as well as Dexter and Rinaldi. I am going to need a lot of workforce.”
“What’s it like there?” Mingo squawked back.
“Picture Death Valley at its worst.”
“Very funny.”
“Make it on the double Chief; the orders come from the old man.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” crackled the reply sounding disappointed.
Ironwood thought the young man had been talking on a portable radio but walking nearer he noticed a curlicue shaped wire trailing through the side window. It was an old style low-ban radio. Probably a dash mount. Sometimes it surprised him that in certain areas the NWC is very state of the art when it comes to their equipment while in others they still cling to vacuum tube technology. Ironwood’s left hand reached instinctively for his belt, and he fingered the vinyl holster on his hip. The snap down flap was still secure. He was concerned about it coming undone and spilling his iPhone into the sand. Bluetooth, GPS, cell, text and the capability to run any app on the planet; it made Ironwood feel like a technological giant next to the young Lieutenant’s Tinker Toy radio. All of the research heads at the Michelson Lab had iPhones. It was the twenty-first century way to keep in touch with his people on the project.
