by Ward Larsen
Wary about what he might find at the end of the road, DeBolt decided to go the rest of the way on foot. He left the Buick where it was, and set out climbing a slight incline. He soon encountered a dirt side road, and curious, he followed it. A hundred feet into the woods he saw what it was—an access path for an electrical substation, a quarter acre of transformers and capacitors and whatever else such a facility was made of. It was all surrounded by a tall concertina-topped fence. As DeBolt walked nearer, he felt an unusual sensation. It began as a tingle in his head, and then the screen in his right eye went to static, like a television that had lost its signal. He heard a buzzing sound in one ear that he’d never noticed before.
Unnerved, he moved back in the direction of the road, and the symptoms immediately abated. He studied the substation, and the high-voltage wires that ran outward on easements north and south. DeBolt walked slowly back toward the fence and the symptoms returned. High voltage, he thought. Electrical interference. It interrupts the signal, or scrambles … whatever is in my brain. It made a certain sense, and he logged it as a curiosity, wishing once again someone had given him a damned owner’s manual.
With November’s long dusk falling, DeBolt set out again along the main road, riding a carpet of fallen leaves over what looked like new pavement. The leaves were wet and soft beneath his feet, cushioning every step and muting the sound of his progress. He’d never before cared about silence, but now it seemed comforting. Even important. Yet another revision brought by his new and grave existence.
DeBolt soon saw a second fortified fence in the distance, this one marking a larger perimeter. He slowed as he approached it and saw signs at regular intervals.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE FACILITY
NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION
There was an access camera and card scanner at the entrance—both made nonsensical by the fact that the sturdy double gate stood wide open. He neared the access point, then came to a halting stop. DeBolt had been expecting some kind of hospital or clinic. What he saw was unidentifiable. It was hard to say how big the place had been, but the word “hospital” seemed generous. What was left standing would fit in a single dump truck. Everything was charred, and while three of the four walls remained partially intact, everything between them had been incinerated to ground level. Gray ash predominated, and what little remained vertical was stroked with slashes of black attesting to the ferocity of the inferno. A singular wisp of smoke trailed upward like the remains of a dying campfire, and an acrid chemical stench replaced the fresh forest air.
DeBolt saw two vehicles nearby, one a red SUV emblazoned with the words FIRE CHIEF and the other a Crown Victoria, government plates similar to those on the car he’d seen leaving. He recalled what Lund had told him: Joan Chandler’s cottage had exploded. DeBolt recognized that disaster for what it was—a blunt attempt to hide and corrupt evidence. Was that what he was looking at here? The aftermath of another slash-and-burn cover-up?
He started walking again, and noticed someone in the Crown Vic, a hunched figure highlighted by the glow of a laptop screen. A large man in a fire department uniform was picking through the wreckage with an iron bar. The guy with the iron bar saw him coming, and quickly came to intercept him. His tone wasn’t welcoming. “Sir, can I ask what you’re doing out here?”
DeBolt already knew what to say—he’d been rehearsing his story since he’d spotted a sign for a hiking trail two miles back. He was perfectly dressed for the part—at the Walmart where he’d bought the prepaid phone, he had also purchased two changes of clothing. He now wore Levi’s, a warm long-sleeved shirt, and a set of hiking boots.
“Man, I’m really sorry. I got lost hiking the Lead Mountain Pond Trail. It’s getting dark, and when I saw you guys I thought you could steer me straight.”
The fireman seemed to soften.
“Okay, buddy. You must’ve got turned around. Go back down that road; the parking lot for the trailhead is about a mile and a half on your right.”
“Okay, great.” DeBolt then looked over the scene. “What happened here? It looks like a war zone.”
There was a slight hesitation, then, “Bad fire … really bad. The five people who worked here were all trapped inside. None made it out.”
DeBolt held steady, remaining in character. “God, how awful. I never even knew this place was out here. What is it?”
The fireman’s gaze hardened. “Can’t say. Maybe you should get back.”
From fifty feet away, DeBolt studied the building’s wreckage in the fast-dimming light. He saw what looked like an X-ray machine, the support arm melted and misshapen. An IV pole loomed over the charred remains of a bed, the mattress and sheets of which had gone to dust, and a few blackened steel springs poked upward like some kind of junkyard-inspired flora. He said, “It looks like a clinic or something.”
“Sir, I—”
“Hey!” shouted a man from the Crown Vic. “This is a crime scene!” He got out and strode over. He was short and stocky, and wore an FBI windbreaker. “You need to leave!”
DeBolt raised a hand apologetically. “Okay, sorry. I’m on my way.” He turned away and began walking, feeling two sets of eyes on his back. It didn’t matter. He knew what he needed to know.
His steps were steady and methodical, belying his staggering thoughts. Five people … none made it out. A mysterious fire. There could be no doubt—what had happened here was no different from Joan Chandler’s cottage. Evidence destroyed and innocent people killed. He wanted to tell the poor fire inspector it was hopeless. Don’t waste your time; you’ll never find out who’s responsible. Then DeBolt felt a connection on an even deeper level. This was the place he remembered. The muted lights, the needle. The cold that had seized him from within and crawled into his heart. This was where he had been zipped into a plastic body bag.
The place where life as he knew it had ended.
* * *
“Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but you can’t just leave!” said Petty Officer James Kalata from across their utilitarian office.
“I can, and I will,” said Lund calmly.
Their desks were arranged to oppose one another, a functional reflection of their strained relationship. One uniform and one civilian, they were both attached to CGIS Northwest Region, and reported to the same person: Special Agent in Charge Jonathan Wheeley in the Seattle district office. Having a boss fourteen hundred miles away was a considerably long leash. Not helping the situation was that when Kalata had first arrived a year ago, he’d immediately started hitting on her. Lund was less than receptive, particularly since Kalata had a wife and three kids less than a mile outside the main gate.
“You need to get approval from Seattle,” he told her.
“I’ll send an email, Jon will understand. My flight is already booked.” Lund had considered making her trip to Boston official business, but for that she would have had to go through channels. The paperwork would take days to process, and given that her evidence was minimal, the request could very possibly be turned down. Something told her Trey DeBolt didn’t have that kind of time. So she’d opted for an emergency leave ploy, explaining that her father in Arizona was ill—a man who was in truth as robust as the Prescott hills he hiked daily.
Kalata finally quit arguing, and he sarcastically wished her a pleasant journey. As Lund was rifling over her desk for documents to take on the flight, her phone rang. She looked at the number guardedly. It wasn’t the one DeBolt had used an hour ago. It was Matt Doran.
“What’s up, Matt?”
“Hi, Shannon. You got a minute?”
“Barely.” Lund heard wind rushing across the microphone of Doran’s phone, a bass static that told her he was outside. “Where are you? You sound like Jim Cantore in a cat five.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m calling. I finally got up the mountain. I’m standing near the top, the spot where William Simmons fell off. I thought you should know there are actually two sets of footprints up here.”
Lund stopped rifling through papers. “Okay.”
“I’m no detective, but I do a little hunting, so I can track pretty well. One set of footprints is definitely Simmons’—when we recovered him I took a picture of the soles of his climbing boots, figuring I’d get a match up higher. I see his prints near the edge, and I think I can even make out where he slid over the side.”
“Can you get pictures of that?”
“Yeah, I’m working on it now. The thing is, all this happened a few days ago and it’s rained a couple of times since. The other set of footprints I’m looking at have the same distortions from the rain. I’m convinced they were made at nearly the same time. His climbing partner told me he never got up this far.”
“Yeah, he told me the same thing—he didn’t think it was safe to go up where Simmons had gone. But even if there is a second set of footprints, Matt, is it a big deal? I mean, other people climb the mountain, right?”
A big rush of wind, then, “This time of year … not so much. And the ledge Simmons was on is pretty tough to reach. I mean, not impossible, but you’d have to know what you’re doing. With that in mind I took a detour south, which is the only other passage up. I picked up the same second set of tracks, and even found a climbing anchor in a crevice—looks like it jammed in place and they couldn’t get it out. I took a picture of that too.”
Lund was silent in thought.
“I dunno, Shannon. This is bugging me. I really think there was somebody else up here that day, somebody who knew how to climb.”
“Okay, I’ll look into it. And send me those pictures when you can.”
“Sure thing.” Another gust of wind.
“And for God’s sake, Matt, be careful up there.”
The call ended, and Lund looked out her office window. It wasn’t much of a view—the side of a hangar and an out-of-service boat sitting on a trailer. Doran’s suspicions might be nothing. There were any number of explanations for what he’d found. But one awkward truth settled in—she hadn’t looked very hard into William Simmons’ death. She’d found out that he had a steady girlfriend named Ashley Routledge, also a Coastie, and Lund had been meaning to talk to her. Then something else registered. The day after the accident she remembered talking to Lieutenant Commander Reggie Walsh, Simmons’ supervising officer, and he’d mentioned that Simmons had inquired about applying for rescue swimmer training. I was going to recommend him too. He was friends with a couple of the ASTs on station, guys who’d been through the program.
Walsh’s words … ASTs on station.
Like Trey DeBolt.
Lund didn’t like the coincidences brewing in her head. In the window’s reflection she caught Kalata staring at her ass. She was as repulsed as ever, but there was a part of her—a very small part—that was encouraged. She’d actually used the treadmill twice this week, and was picking up her pace. Feeling more confident.
Before turning around, Lund unhooked the top button on her boring brown blouse. She walked near Kalata’s desk and leaned over at a file cabinet to put a little cleavage on display. Not really a provocative move. More … informational. The man might be a desk-potted philanderer, but he was a decent investigator when he wanted to be.
She stood straight, and said, “Jim, I need you to look into something while I’m gone…”
25
The Alaska Airlines 737 touched down at Boston Logan International Airport at 10:33 the next morning. It was a firm landing, and the thump of the main wheels on concrete jolted Lund out of a sound sleep. The jet cleared the runway, and as soon as the flight attendant made an announcement that phones could be turned back on, Lund did so and saw a message from Kalata: Call me.
She did, and he answered right away, even though it was four hours earlier in Kodiak. Picking up calls at zero dark thirty came with the job. So, correspondingly, did sleepy voices.
“Damn, Shannon. You know what time it is?”
“My plane just landed—I got your message.”
“You’re just now landing? I didn’t think it took so long to fly to Arizona.”
“Flight delays,” she said, not knowing or caring if he knew where she’d really gone. “Did you get in touch with Ashley Routledge?”
A yawn, then, “Who?”
“Simmons’ girlfriend.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I found her. Works over in the education office, a real cute brunette.”
Lund rolled her eyes. “I’m insanely jealous. What did she say about Simmons? Was there anything strange going on in his life?”
“She did mention one thing—like you guessed, it had to do with Trey DeBolt.”
Lund felt a clench in her gut like a tightening fist. She’d asked Kalata to look for any relationship between Simmons and DeBolt.
“Apparently the two were pretty tight,” Kalata continued. “Turns out, the day after DeBolt was evac-ed out, Simmons was scheduled to be in Anchorage for a two-day training session of some kind. As soon as he arrived he tried to track down DeBolt. He went to both hospitals but couldn’t find him. About that same time we got official word here on station that DeBolt hadn’t survived his injuries. Ashley called Simmons and told him. She said he got really upset. He went back to the Air Force hospital in Anchorage and raised a ruckus—nearly got himself arrested. Nobody there seemed to know anything about DeBolt or where his body might be. When he got back to Kodiak, he started making phone calls and sending emails—the hospitals, the mortuary section. Routledge showed me a few, and they were pretty accusative. She said he was frustrated that nobody would listen to him, and making noise about contacting CGIS. Then he fell off Mount Barometer. That’s about it—I hope it helps.”
Lund tried to think of something to say. “Okay, Jim, thanks for looking into it.”
“Anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope your dad is—” Kalata’s words were cut short by the end button.
She looked out the window as the jet pulled into the gate. She combined the new information with what Doran had discovered on the mountain, and what Fred McDermott had told her about a Learjet trying to cover its tracks with false flight plans. Her suspicions only deepened. What had happened to DeBolt after he was evac-ed out of Kodiak? How had he survived his injuries and ended up in Maine of all places? Then Lund came to a more disturbing realization.
William Simmons, who was no investigator, had been the first to start asking questions. He’d seen inconsistencies in the story of what had happened to a gravely injured Trey DeBolt. Many of his questions were the same ones Lund herself was now asking.
And today William Simmons was dead.
* * *
When Benefield got the message that DeBolt was still at large, he took it poorly. The general sent an invective-laden response to his team suggesting, in colorful terms, that they ought to do better. He surfed news outlets to assess the investigations into a pair of fires, one at a small clinic in Maine and another at a DARPA research facility in rural Virginia. Neither inquiry seemed to be making headway, although as generals knew better than anyone, what was fed to the media was rarely the full story.
More encouragingly, Benefield’s phone had rung only once since last night. To an FBI investigator he expressed a commander’s regret over the loss of life in Virginia, and commented in passing that he had only recently visited the troops there. That was what he called them—troops. As if they’d all taken the oath of service and been inducted into active duty. Nothing was mentioned about the tragedy in Maine, and he was sure it never would be. That venue had been established very carefully via a series of shell companies, each a dead end in its own right. It had been the riskiest part of the entire project, and illegal on any number of levels. But of course it had been essential.
More than ever, he hoped Patel would have the abort codes for him tonight. And if he didn’t? Then Benefield would have to find another way to sever META’s remaining loose ends.
&n
bsp; * * *
Less than a mile away, Atif Patel began his morning with matters unrelated to META. He had long ago decided that his pursuit of the project, secretive as it was, would only succeed if he could maintain the veneer of a normal professional life. So from his hotel desk he corresponded by email with a Cal professor regarding a paper they were co-publishing, and had a lengthy phone conversation with a graduate student who was preparing to defend her doctoral thesis.
Absent from his schedule that day was any attempt to retrieve the codes General Benefield wanted to activate META’s kill switch. The reason was eminently simple—they didn’t exist. Patel viewed it as an insurance policy of sorts. Without his drive and vision, the gains from the META would never have been realized. His integration software was installed deep in the bedrock of some of the most highly classified and complex mainframes on earth, and he wasn’t going to let so much work be put at risk by the whims his careerist overseer. Simply put, he had lost faith in General Benefield, and by extension DARPA. When the general had insisted at the outset that an abort code be included in the software—his words, as if it were a ballistic missile or something—Patel had agreed with the conviction of a child with his fingers crossed behind his back. The agency’s sudden removal of funding was a surprise to Patel, and certainly a setback, yet he had months ago sensed in Benefield a lack of enthusiasm for the project. Timing aside, none of it was unexpected. Patel had been working with various DOD entities since graduate school, and so he knew all too well the sad truth: invariably, generals fixated on nothing beyond putting the next star on their shoulders. It was scientists like himself who reached for the galaxies.
