In truth, the scientists and technicians who passed that sign should know that if anything went wrong that door could and would slam shut. Whether or not it would ever open again depended on how valuable the research was, how bad things had gone, and whether any of the research team were critical to the success of other projects.
It did not matter if you were deep in the Red Lab section, or one inch inside the bulkhead. If the containment alarm went off, those doors shut. If you were standing one foot in and one foot out, you were split like Solomon’s baby. They left no room for error … or mercy.
Gant had seen enough examples of what could go wrong; how one scientist's "whoops" could lead to a dozen deaths in the name of scientific security.
At that moment, the CONTAINMENT sign above the entrance went out.
Gant tensed, expecting an attack, and scanned the area with his tactical light while Twiste held his glow stick high like a torch, but it provided only a tiny radius of illumination.
Ahead of them from inside the Red Lab section came a new source of light as several beacons sprang to life, spinning and flashing yellow and red. Emergency lights, turned on—it seemed—for their benefit.
"How come I don't like the look of that?"
Gant answered, "For the same reason I don't."
As much as he did not like the idea, Major Gant realized that they had no choice. Apparently all their slinking about had come to naught; they were expected. Guided, in fact.
Together they crossed the threshold. The red stripes that had led them to the entranceway bled until they engulfed the concrete walls entirely.
Steel doors marked secondary laboratories. Most were hidden behind the concrete, but one offered a stretch of thick, laminated glass, allowing the research in one workshop to be viewed from the passage.
It was dark in there, but one of those spinning yellow siren lights provided enough flashing light for the intruders to see inside: test tubes, ancient computers, and a tall metal cylinder that Gant believed was a transmission electron microscope. However, the two bodies sitting at chairs among the equipment grabbed his attention more than the equipment itself.
With each yellow flash he discerned more features and realized he saw the mummified remains of two researchers sitting with their heads slung back, staring at the ceiling through black holes with decaying jaws locked open in an eternal scream.
The image made Gant think of a display at a museum: come see the dead scientists in their natural habitat!
His view inside the lab as well as everything behind went dark as the flashing siren lights clicked off, leaving them in total blackness yet again.
As had happened the last time, the dark did not last long. Soft track lighting—only half the bulbs worked—fixed in the upper corner of a hallway switched on, lighting the way, joined a few paces later by about half the bulbs in a couple of fluorescent lights.
Gant wondered if they should follow the prescribed path. Perhaps a brief retreat to regroup and find a new approach might be best. Yet he could not shake the feeling that their choices were limited, and he had grown tired of the mystery. He wanted to know his enemy.
They reached a four-way intersection where the lights ended, leaving the other passages shrouded in shadows. Ahead waited two large doors shut tight. Gant saw a sign posted there, and while it was too dark to read the fine print, he knew that sign marked their final destination: ground zero of the Briggs experiment.
Something moved to their left, just around a corner. Gant shined his tactical light in that direction and it fell—briefly—on a ghastly white face with big black eyes. That face retreated, so he did not fire, but he knew it had not gone far.
Another sound, this time to the right. That passage led to a large door displaying the word "disposal" below a biohazard icon. That door stood open, just a little. The major's tactical light illuminated several pairs of pale hands sporting spindly fingers.
At that point, he knew what was coming before he heard the sounds from behind. He did not bother swiveling his rifle around to see the creatures shadowing them.
The track lights and fluorescents switched off. Lines of red—like fiber-optic wires—turned on and ran the length of the hall, leading to the double doors.
Twiste glanced about nervously and said, "What the hell are those things? Is that what you saw outside the storage room?"
"Yes, I think so. For the most part."
"What do we do now?"
"We have two choices," Major Gant replied. "We could start firing and hope to fight our way out, but I don't think that worked very well for the rest of the team. Or we could accept the invitation and see where it leads. After all," he nodded at the bag Twiste carried, "that’s where we want to be, anyhow."
"I don't like those choices, Thom. Not at all."
"Me neither."
Side by side, they started toward the double doors. As they moved, Gant heard the scampering of feet, the snarls, the snapping of the creatures behind them moving to block that avenue of egress.
Before they reached the doors, Twiste touched Gant's shoulder and said, "Hey, um, Thom, I'm sorry about pushing you back there. You know, in the storage room. I just, well, you're a friend and I think sometimes you need a push."
"You might be right, Doctor. I hope we make it through this and you can push me some more. But for now, let's find out what this is all about."
Gant and Twiste reached the double doors and went inside.
22
Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder imagined the nicotine sliding down her windpipe. Then that feeling of calm, of satisfaction, of everything right in the world could move in and take over, chasing away the doubts and second-guessing. By the time she finished what remained of the pack, she felt sure she would not give a damn about the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility and all the problems therein.
Yet she hesitated. Why?
She stood outside in the sunshine for the first time all day. In fact, it felt like several days since she had seen the sun with all the clouds and rain that had blown through.
Still, she did not like the woods, so she remained close to the main entrance, sucking down big gulps of fresh air with the half-pack of Virginia Slims in her hand.
A cadre of unseen birds chirped while the sporadic movement of small animals—probably squirrels or woodchuck—disturbed a branch here, a leaf there.
It had been nearly four hours since the Archangel unit disappeared beyond the great vault door. Four hours since General Borman’s blow torches sealed that door shut, entombing them.
Oh, what's the difference, Liz? You've entombed plenty of people in the past, sealing them away behind a vault door of drugs and "'therapy.” It's all part of this nasty business. Just relax and have a cigarette. You'll feel better in a jiff.
As she wandered along the concrete slab that stretched around the perimeter of the building, she realized how much she had missed the sun. She realized that the fake light from the buzzing fluorescents of the sublevels could never match the real thing.
What are you doing here, Liz?
Now there was one of those questions she tried to avoid. It was right there along with “why did you do that?” and “is this really what you want?” Those were not good questions because she rarely liked the answers.
She gazed at the pack and imagined glowing embers devouring the paper inch by delicious inch, leaving ashes in their wake.
Movement from behind distracted her from the cigarettes' attraction. The main door to the facility opened and Corporal Sanchez emerged without seeing her. He stood and looked toward the sky, closing his eyes and craning his neck as if bathing in the afternoon air. Then he stretched his arms and let slip a quick groan as his tired muscles released.
Liz watched the soldier as he appreciated his own respite from the depths. He seemed to let everything flow away from him, and he did not need a cigarette to do it.
Here was a young man who, not even a week ago, shot to death his commanding offi
cer. Here was a man who worked in one of the most secure areas in the world, where armed guards, containment doors, key card passes, and lethally charged electric fences were a part of everyday life, a life Sanchez spent hundreds of feet below ground a breath away from doomsday.
Yet it took only a moment of fresh air, a moment of sun, to chase it all away.
The result, Liz assumed, of a clear conscience.
Sanchez rolled his neck to work out the stiffness. As he did he caught sight of her. His demeanor changed immediately. His muscles stiffened again and he stood straight.
Liz raised a hand and told him, "Relax, Corporal. It’s nice to get some fresh air, isn’t it?"
"Yeah." Apparently he felt this was too casual and added, "I mean, yes, ma'am."
"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever off duty."
She had told him to relax but there was no mistaking that her presence deprived him of his respite. That made her feel guilty.
"So what did you think of all that this morning?"
He answered, "It’s not my place to think about it, with all respect, ma'am."
"Of course, that would go against General Borman's no-thinking-for-yourself policy, right?"
The young corporal stopped dead in his tracks, perhaps unsure of what he had heard. Maybe he was worried that she was playing one of her psychological tricks on him the way she had the other soldiers on staff, including several who were no longer on staff as a result.
Then something interesting happened. Sanchez squinted his eyes—just a little—and replied in a tone that carried all sorts of connotations, "I wouldn’t know about that, ma'am. General Borman isn’t my boss."
She casually asked, "Oh? Who is your boss?"
Sanchez looked at her as if he were explaining the concept of a round Earth to a four-year-old child. Liz actually felt a pang of embarrassment that she had asked such a stupid question.
"That would be you, colonel."
"Oh, well, yeah, sure. In name only."
"Ma’am, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the army, it’s that there’s a chain of command. That chain is written in black and white. According to that chain, you are in charge of Red Rock. It's your responsibility. The general, well, he's really just a VIP guest. Unless, of course, he relieves you of command. But that's a lot of paperwork and would require a detailed explanation for the record."
She smiled nervously and tried to joke, "I guess that makes me the fall-girl."
Sanchez shot fast, "Only if you let it, ma'am."
That gave her pause. She cast her eyes away from Sanchez and away from that ugly building and off toward the trees, where a soft breeze caused branches to sway.
"Thank you, Corporal."
"If you need anything from me, just say the word, Colonel."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, although she had no idea what she could do, particularly considering Borman had already put a gun to her head.
Sanchez nodded and returned inside. Liz felt the pack of cigarettes in her hand.
Just as the door shut behind Sanchez, it opened again and out walked Vsalov of The Tall Company. To Liz's eyes, the older man appeared sickly, thanks to his drawn face and black hair that had not spent time with a comb in days. He wore a light blue sport jacket drooped over his sagging shoulders.
Vsalov produced his own cigarette pack, wiggled a finger in it, found nothing, and tossed it into a nearby bush. He searched his pockets and found another pack, this one already opened but far from empty.
She watched his hands shake as he lit his smoke with a big silver lighter and sucked in the nicotine like a heroin addict finding a fix after hours of withdrawal.
Liz recognized him. It had not been that long ago that she had done the same—tried to drown out the guilty conscience or the bad feelings or the nerves with a smoke or two. Or three. Or two packs a day.
He finally took notice of her and flashed a flirtatious smile that seemed born of some slimy male instinct, but it quickly morphed into something like a scowl. Obviously General Borman had told Vsalov of her trip to The Tall Company and her questions. No doubt Vsalov had lost interest in her curves and could see her only as a fly in their ointment.
Seeing Vsalov, however, reminded Liz that she still waited for a return call from Dr. Doreen McCaul. In fact, she felt it might be a good idea to go inside and try her again. While she appreciated the sunshine, Vsalov had brought his own clouds.
23
Major Thom Gant reached for the handle of one of the two big, thick-hinged doors leading into the primary Red Lab. His fingers grasped the metal carefully, as if he served on the bomb-disposal squad opening a suspicious briefcase.
He paused.
Had he heard …?
Yes, the sound grew louder.
He looked at Twiste, whose eyes grew wide in astonishment.
Music.
Quiet but building, giving Gant the feeling of standing outside the high school gymnasium while the prom took place inside.
He pressed down on right door's latch, Twiste did the same on the left, and they opened the double doors in unison.
Of all the scenarios, of all the nightmares, of everything he had expected to find at the bottom of the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility, he could not have imagined this.
It was a square room with an eight-foot ceiling comprised of protective tiles resembling sound proofing. Lights hung from various angles along the walls, some rotating like dance floor spotlights in a glowing spectrum of colors including white, blue, and red pointed haphazardly about the otherwise dark chamber, creating cones of light between the shadows.
To the left along the wall just visible in a flash of blue he saw wire shelving. To the right in a flash of bright white he spotted a pair of small doors, either exits or closets.
The music was the Glenn Miller Band’s In the Mood, playing from a large console radio located across the room under the radiance of a dedicated beam of light. The thing looked quite out of place, particularly because it rested atop a shiny metal cart meant for the best research equipment 1992 could offer.
The radio—an RCA model circa 1937 or so—was a behemoth of a thing, encased almost entirely in a finished wood frame. The monolithic fascia was broken only by the speaker mesh that stretched across the midsection running vertically down from an ancient horizontal tuner with two big round knobs.
Party trimmings hung from the ceiling and walls, including streamers, balloons, and a banner that might have said "welcome home" or "congratulations," but for some reason the lettering would not come into focus for Thom's eyes.
It appeared that the Red Lab was one big party, complete with dancers. Two of them, in fact. A man and a woman twirled in the shadows, keeping their features hidden, although Gant seemed to think they wore a tux and a gown, but, as with the banner, his eyes could not quite draw the entire picture.
Indeed, the couple and the party seemed a surreal canvas of impressionist art: a picture drawn from the memory of a glance.
Gant and Twiste stepped inside the room, but only a step; each still held his respective door open.
The Major listened to the music, he watched the dancers strut and shimmy on the far side of the chamber, and he kept his finger on the trigger of his MP5.
He tried to focus on the details. The streamers were like painted shadows; he wondered if they were really there. If he got close enough, he thought he could make them disappear with a wave of his hand, like chasing vapors or smoke.
He looked to the dancers. They felt more real, yet there was something ethereal about them, too. No matter where they moved they kept to the dark spots between the gyrating spotlights.
Were they people, or marionettes?
Unsure if he could trust his eyes, Thom turned to his other senses. His nose offered a blend of smells that told of age and neglect: dust and odors of decay. Despite its visual appearance, this place remained old, musty, and isolated.
His ears heard the music, but there was som
ething not right. As the banners and dancers did to his eyes, the music felt out of focus to his ears.
The big radio dominated the room like the altar at the heart of a church, on full display with a spotlight of its own, boldly broadcasting the big band sound. Yet it, too, posed questions for the eye. Was it really there?
Glenn Miller's signature song came to a close. The dancers stopped fast, frozen in a pose like toys with drained batteries. The lights ceased their spinning and flashing and then dimmed, taking the party streamers and balloons with them into darkness.
Only the radio remained, illuminated in a beam of light.
The tuner glowed green and a voice announced, "That one went out to our brave fighting GI’s who have finally made it. Let’s hear it for our boys!"
Both dancers—barely visible—put their hands together in applause.
The radio dial glowed green again and the announcer continued, "Major Thom Gant and Captain Brandon Twiste, come on in and join the party!"
Thom glanced at his friend and saw in Brandon's eyes exactly what he felt in his own heart: fear. When faced with a threat, Thom's training kicked in. Guns and fists, defensive moves and tactical planning. But this was something different. A threat to be sure, but seemingly to his sanity, although he had no illusions: death felt close.
Both men let go of their doors, allowing the entranceway to ease shut and close with a clang.
At that moment, one red spotlight returned to life, drifted across the floor, and settled on Thom Gant. The beam started wide but then shrank down to the width of a laser, focusing on his HK MP5.
"The war is over, boys," the radio told them. "Turn your swords into plowshares."
Gant raised his machine gun and pointed it in no particular direction. The two dancers moved toward him, but without any of the grace they had displayed—he had thought he saw—when they swayed to music.
Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle Page 21
