"Do you think the letters in Penthouse are real?"
—
Lieutenant Colonel Thunder rubbed her eyes and looked at the two piles of folders. Private Evans’s now rested in the pile to the left with the folders of soldiers to be transferred out of Red Rock.
She did not like what she had just done. She had not liked doing it over and over again for nearly twenty-four hours straight. But it was her job to push their ability to stay focused and she had to push as hard as she could because someone had not pushed Colonel Haas enough.
The door creaked open at the same time as a soft rap sounded.
"Colonel Thunder?"
In walked a man with a shaved head and a sturdy upper body; a man with a lot of strength in his arms and strong shoulders. However, she spied a fair number of wrinkles around his eyes, as well as age spots on his hands, suggesting that he was approaching senior citizen status.
Regardless, she worried less about his years and more about the three stars on his dress uniform. She snapped to her feet.
"General, sir."
"At ease, Colonel, and welcome to Hell Hole."
He offered his hand and she took it, returning his strong shake with a firm grip of her own.
General Harold Borman, she thought. The legend.
"Thank you, sir. Hell Hole?"
"You mean they haven’t told you yet? I thought Corporal Sanchez would’ve filled you in. Officially we all know and love this place as the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility. To those who have to deal with this pit, well, they call it the Hell Hole. Probably not too far from the truth, actually. You haven’t been down to the vault yet, have you?"
He knew she had not because he had ordered her to wait until his arrival before visiting the lower levels.
"No, sir. This is as far down as I’ve gone."
"Do you have your key card? Your security pass?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, gather them up. It’s time you saw what this is all about."
Liz did as told and they left the office. She closed the door tight behind them with a click, making sure the lock caught; the door tended to slip open. That click echoed through the vacant hallway.
The buzz of the fluorescents; the tap of her shoes on the cold surface; the rumble of power generators—to Liz's ear the corridor seemed filled with noise, as if she traveled in the belly of a giant machine churning around her. But as she spoke her voice sounded too loud and alone, causing her to whisper as she realized that the ambient noise remained just that; a steady drone in the background magnified to her ear by imagination and unfamiliarity with the complex.
"Sir, I do have a few questions."
"You’re wondering why you’re here." His voice boomed with authority. He did not whisper. Nothing about him was quiet. His very presence was loud.
"Yes. Yes, sir." Now it was her turn to struggle with concentration. "Sir, I’m honored with this position but I do not have a facility command background. My expertise—"
"Your expertise," he continued for her, "is in psychology. You worked in advanced PsyOps for more than ten years."
"True, but I’ve never commanded a base before." She thought about her career experience and her mind instinctually paused, throwing up defensive barriers one after another. "I've managed special projects but not a facility."
"I am quite aware of your experience, lieutenant colonel. I know you've gone through a bad spell. I was at the commission hearings. Nasty business, but we're in a nasty business. Sometimes I think there are those in the Defense Department who forget that. They want things neat and clean. They think you can make progress without risk. You took those risks, Colonel, just as you were expected to. You weren't working on a new missile system or software package; you were working with the human mind, and some people felt that made some sort of difference. Russian involvement just complicated the matter."
"Sir, I—"
He held a hand up and said, "I agree, no reason to dredge up the past. Point is, you've been on the bench, so to speak, for a while now. That's not fair, but it happens. When this opportunity came up I needed to find someone with your background; someone who understands that this is a nasty business and who understands people."
They arrived at the large elevator offering access to the lower levels. Liz spied a security camera hanging from the ceiling. She remembered watching video of Colonel Haas’s controlled march. She remembered him fumbling with his card, needing two tries to gain clearance.
An icy hand grabbed hold of her spine and gave a good shake.
Borman swiped his card through the lock. The doors opened immediately, startling Liz. They made her think of predatory jaws opening in anticipation of a kill.
"You have something that none of our previous commanders here have had."
She did her best to remain attentive, but as they entered the elevator her muscles tensed and sweat formed on her neck and in her palms while the adrenaline pumps in her body went to work at full speed.
To her amazement, Liz realized her body had activated its natural fight or flight response.
"You have experience in dealing with the type of influences personnel here have to deal with," he went on, not noticing her change in demeanor.
"Well, sir," she managed to keep her voice calm and even, "that’s not entirely true. If what I’ve read in the reports is correct then no one has ever had to deal with, well, the, um, things that go on here."
Borman looked at her with narrow, penetrating eyes. "Those reports are correct. Don’t ever make the mistake of taking them lightly."
Given that her heart raced in one continual thump-thump-thump, Liz realized she would never dare take this place lightly.
The elevator doors slammed shut and the compartment went dark … until her eyes adjusted to the light from a solitary red bulb. The car descended into the bowels of the Hell Hole. Chains rattled and pulleys squeaked, the car vibrated, and she felt certain the general could hear the heavy pounding of her heart.
With each passing sublevel Liz’s anxiety built.
Sublevel 2 …
I am in control. There is nothing to fear here.
Sublevel 3 …
The reports must be exaggerated … or at least speculative.
Sublevel 4 …
This is my base now … I own it! I will not let it own me!
Their descent came to a stop with a harsh clang. The doors opened and a burst of bright light rushed in. Liz shielded her eyes for a moment.
"Welcome to sublevel 5, Colonel." General Borman extended his arm to shuttle her out. "As I was saying," he paused, thought, then asked, "Thunder? What is that?"
"My father had some Comanche. At least, I think that's where it comes from."
"Interesting."
These halls were smaller, more compact than the floors above, but the background noise remained and, if anything, grew more intense, although that might have been her imagination again, adding to a feeling of oppression and dread, as if this high-tech maze was in fact the Minotaur's labyrinth
"As I was saying, you have something the previous commanders did not. You have the discipline—the mental discipline—to keep this complex under control. You are less likely to be …" he searched for the right words. "You are less likely to be compromised by the environment here."
She swallowed hard.
Soldiers roamed sublevel 5. They stood stiff as the general passed. He took no notice of them and just kept talking as if they were no more than fixtures on the wall.
"I agree, Colonel, that you are not prepared to command a traditional military installation. But for here you are the perfect fit. You can constantly evaluate the personnel, something Haas couldn’t do. Hell, he couldn’t prevent his own …" Borman's authoritarian boom wavered and he spoke the word "… deterioration" in a subdued voice.
They came to the end of the main corridor and a steel door watched by a sentry armed with an M16. General Borman showed his pass to the soldier. The sentry glar
ed at Liz, who realized she needed to do the same.
After flashing her security badge, the guard opened the door for them.
They walked down an even tighter corridor to yet another heavy security door. As they moved, Liz took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an attempt to find some kind of calm. When she could not quite manage
'calm" she reached for resolve and mustered just enough inner strength to keep her heart from beating right out of her chest.
General Borman told her, "You see, over the last twenty years we’ve come to believe that the best defense against these … these … influences is a well-ordered, disciplined mind that can maintain strong concentration and focus."
"Yes, I’ve seen that. I’ve also noticed that the garrison here is not what I would have expected."
"And that would be?"
"Rangers. Special Ops forces, or something similar."
"Yes, the guards here are primarily from military police regiments. Our Special Ops forces are trained to think on their feet; to be creative problem solvers. They are deadly because they outfight and outthink the enemy."
Liz finished for the general, "But the less thinking here, the better. Right?"
He nodded and slipped a special key card into the security device at the door. There was a loud buzz and a heavy bolt retracted.
"Don’t get me wrong; these are some of the finest soldiers in the armed forces," he said. "But they are also the most focused."
She thought robots.
Liz followed General Harold Borman into the Vault Security Station. The two soldiers on duty inside stood at perfect attention, but Liz barely saw the men. Instead, she looked past them, beyond the windows opposite the two control consoles, beyond the security door between those consoles.
Liz gazed in at the ominous vault door in its perfectly white room; the door marking the separation between the upper levels and the lower levels, all the way down to sublevel 8.
General Borman shared her view of the most heavily guarded door in all the world and said, "You have one job, Colonel; one priority. It’s all very simple, really. That door never gets opened."
6
"Whoops," Thom said aloud to himself as he turned to catch the front door before it closed. He dropped his duffel bag on the front stoop and reentered his ranch-style home.
Gant crossed the dining room and moved into the kitchen area. It was a bright kitchen, lots of white counters and cupboards, made even brighter by the big glass sliding door looking out on a rear patio and backyard.
He glanced around and found his black leather briefcase exactly where he had left it, on the linoleum floor next to one of the stools surrounding the breakfast bar. He bent, grabbed the handle, and stood straight again with the intention of exiting the house for the second time that morning.
Instead, he stopped and stared out the glass doors. There, beyond the patio and barbecue grill, was his wife on her hands and knees, working a patch of soil that served as their garden, although it was rather barren at the moment: only weeds, which Jean Gant seemed intent on eliminating.
It had been only moments since Thom had said good-bye to her, explaining that he was leaving on assignment, that he might be away as long as two weeks.
She took the news with the same demeanor with which she accepted all his news in recent years: without a protest, without a whimper, without any emotion at all. He might as well have been telling her the weather forecast for the day.
Many of their friends—back when they had friends—eventually asked the obvious question: did Thom and Jean have problems because they were an interracial marriage? Had her Italian father caused trouble?
Sure he had, until realizing that Thom was as an officer in the Marines. Soon the two swapped war stories. Tales of Korea in exchange for tales of Afghanistan. Hell, dad-in-law liked him even more when Thom was transferred to a Task Force that would operate under U.S. Army jurisdiction.
Unfortunately, their problems were not nearly as dramatic or as interesting as racism. He almost wished they faced a deluge of prejudice; then maybe they could have bonded in an "us against the world" type of way.
No, their problems had to do with him, but not because of the color of his skin.
When they married, she had been supportive of his job, yet afraid that his next mission would be his last. Their good-byes were passionate and sad. After a few years his assignments changed from somewhat predictable deployments to spur-of-the-moment missions; phone calls in the middle of the night.
Confused anger and tears replaced those passionate and sad good-byes. No amount of explaining would comfort her, no sincere apologies could appease. But like an exhausted boxer in the fifteenth round, Jean slowly succumbed to the blows. She grew too tired to burst into tears or scream out her frustration. No more emotion, just acceptance, probably the same way in which she accepted that the sun would rise every morning.
Her kisses good-bye were just a reflex, his predictions of return superfluous—it did not matter. She knew he would return when he returned, whenever that would be.
He loved her. He knew that. She loved him. He knew that, too.
They did not argue anymore. She did not question his job or offer any protest. On those evenings when he happened to be home she made dinner and they spoke of the weather, and the news, and repainting the master bedroom or what she should plant in the garden.
When he was not home, she shopped, she met with her bridge club, she visited her deteriorating mother in the retirement village outside of Los Angeles, and she even went to an occasional movie by herself.
She kept the home spotless; that was her pet project keeping her busy and focused.
Clean, neatly tucked sheets covered the bed in the spare room, and paper flowers decorated the night stand there. Yet no one came to visit. The master bedroom was equally as clean and well kept, an easy task, considering that half the bed was empty half the nights.
The living room, with the television and the couch and the recliner, was immaculate, decorated with wedding photographs, a Thomas Kincaid print depicting a snow-covered village, and the latest version of whatever coffee-table book had caught her eye at the mall.
A nice house. Not gigantic, but roomy. Not sophisticated, but very well maintained. Not a whole lot of land, but a nice size yard with privacy fencing to keep the world out.
What a perfect little home. All it needed was someone to live in it. The Gants were merely ghosts walking the halls.
He leaned against the counter and watched. She wore a bandana to keep her long black hair from her eyes while working in the dirt. She wore jeans and a gray t-shirt and dug into the soil to eliminate the remains of a dead or dying plant or weed.
Thom wondered what would happen—how she would feel—if one of these missions were his last. If one time he told her he would be back in a week and he was not back in ten days, or two weeks, or a month.
He wondered how she would feel when the big American-made SUV with the government license plates and tinted windows pulled to the curb and two well-manicured military types in dress uniforms and carrying attaché cases came marching up the walkway.
Would she be afraid or relieved?
He knew Jean would not have given her heart to someone whom she could ever stop loving. He knew that she was a part of him and he was a part of her—as much a part of her as her right arm.
No, he thought. No. She was right-handed. Without her right arm she could not do her crossword puzzles or write a shopping list or sketch wildflowers on the patio. Instead, he was her left arm—a good left arm, but still just the left arm. If he were gone, she would miss him. But would her life change? At all?
Thom remembered that a dark blue Chevrolet Suburban with an MP at the wheel waited for him at the curb. He had never made them wait so long before. His departures were always quick, efficient, and well planned; just like everything else Archangel did.
Why was this time different?
Because he had forgotten his c
ase. He had come back inside and she was not crying or pounding her fists in frustration or opening the porch door for a lover to slip in. Perhaps any of those alternatives would have been preferable to what he did find: Jean going about her business because today was just another day in her life like any other day.
Major Thom Gant carried his briefcase out the front door. Jean continued tugging at a weed until she managed to pull it free of the soil, root and all.
7
Gant wound his wristwatch three hours into the future to make up the difference between California and Pennsylvania. In all, six hours had passed since he had left his home, yet he found himself in another Suburban, this one black and with a different soldier—a Corporal Sanchez—at the wheel who, like Thom, dressed in casual civilian clothes.
His day had begun with leaving Jean to her garden, then a ride on a DOD Learjet to a small commercial airport in Williamsport, Pennsylvania where Sanchez came to collect him. Next came a maze of rural roads until they finally settled on Route 118 East. Thirty minutes later they came to a crossroads at a village named Red Rock. At that point Sanchez swung onto another road slinking north through Ricketts Glen State Park and climbed Red Rock mountain.
Along the way they passed a trailer park, forests thinned by either logging or fire, and a sign marking an elevation of over 2,400 feet.
Eventually Sanchez abandoned this road for an even smaller one. Not long after that turn, Thom saw those first ominous yellow signs: "Posted and Patrolled," followed shortly thereafter by, "Property of the United States Federal Government—Armed Patrols." Then, of course, came the hurricane fencing with signs reading, "High Security Area—Sentries Authorized to Use Lethal Force."
Places like this, Thom thought, always had those signs. They always had the signs, the fences, the security cameras, the dogs, the infrared sensors, the checkpoints, and the key card locks—all to keep the outsiders out. Funny how the trouble that inevitably came to places like the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility came from within.
Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle Page 5
