I glanced back, saw the faint glow of the tunnel lights from the other side of the beam, took a few more minutes to steady my galloping heart, and then started walking in the only direction I could.
I pointed the tiny penlight at my feet and advanced with caution, one step at a time, making certain that the floor did not drop out from beneath me—another fatal mistake often committed in scary movies. After several yards I realized that the fissure was trending downward.
I’m going deeper into the mountain. Not cool. Not cool at all.
Except for my penlight, the passage was totally dark, the kind of complete dark that crowds in on you. The air grew heavy. Oppressive.
No ventilation down here.
Though the temperature remained steady and moderate, I shivered continually. The weight bearing down on me seemed to grow heavier. I talked to myself in a whisper, fighting the sense of being buried alive. Then the passage widened a little and I reached its end.
I must have looked pretty stupid, just staring at the solid wall of jagged rock in front of me. I touched the wall with tentative fingers.
The passage just ends here?
Sure, a curious individual might have discovered the narrow hole behind the beam; they might, perhaps, have dared to squeeze through. But if they had followed the fissure and found themselves here, my bet was they would have shrugged and turned around. I think they would have believed the passage to be nothing more than a natural crack in the rocks—as I had.
But I hadn’t come upon this passage by accident; I had been directed here.
When I consulted the map, it offered no help. The line on it just continued—as if the wall didn’t exist. I began a careful, systematic examination of the wall with my flashlight.
I played my tiny light around the edges of the fissure’s end and found nothing but the solid rock it appeared to be. Sighing, I leaned my back upon the wall and began to examine the sides of the fissure where it widened out.
Where one side jutted into the mountain, thus widening the passage, my dim light almost passed over something. Not sure of what I’d seen, I came close to the jagged wall and felt with my gloved fingers.
Ingenious, I acknowledged. A wall in front of another wall, shielding passage to the next part of the tunnel.
Yes, tunnel. For now I knew with certainty that, from this point on, the rest of the “fissure” was a manmade passage: A manmade continuation of something that began naturally; a creative extension made to fool the casual explorer.
The crack between the two walls was not much wider than the crack behind the beam. I turned sideways and slid along. It wound like an “s,” a switchback, and I was glad when the new passage widened—until it ended only another six feet farther.
I stood before another rough iron door that, judging by its appearance, had likely kept uninterrupted vigil for decades. Just like the outside entrance, this door had no handle, no knob, and no lock—only a flat, riveted, reinforced surface.
Would I do the “left toe, right hand” thing I’d done outside to open this door? I consulted the map and instructions once more.
Look for a chalk mark on the floor to the right of the door.
I pointed my tiny light toward the base of the door and moved it right. The faintest mark appeared in the glow of my penlight.
Remove the mark.
I spit on the chalk and scuffed it with the toe of my boot. It dissolved as expected. I read the next line.
Feel for a lever in a crack just above the mark.
A shudder ran through me. No way was I inclined to “feel” for anything in a crack. Only God himself knew what kind of crawlers were in residence in the nooks and crannies of this tunnel! New Mexico boasts a super-sized centipede—and one disgusting bug from the spider family called a vinegaroon. That critter looks like the offspring of a scorpion and a giant cockroach. Ghastly.
I shuddered again, but I had my gloves on, so I resolutely bent to touch the floor where the chalk mark had been.
The stone floor was smooth to the touch through the leather of my gloves. The rock wall, however, was not. I walked my fingers up the uneven wall, examining ragged edges as I went.
Then I found it—between two rocks. The two rocks were smooth, different from the rest of the wall, like they didn’t belong. Had they been hammered into a crack? Sandwiched between the two rocks was a narrow hole. Within the crack I felt a length of metal perhaps only a finger’s width.
Feel for a lever.
The space between the rocks was only wide enough for the hidden metal bar.
That has to be the lever! I reported to myself.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
You’re welcome, Sergeant Sarcasm, I retorted.
I pressed down on the piece of metal. Nothing.
I tried to lift it. It didn’t move.
Side-to-side. Not even wiggle room.
I could scarcely grasp the metal rod between my finger and thumb, so small was the hole. I pulled. Nothing!
Could you have made the opening any smaller? I whined.
I stood up and rubbed my eyes with my sleeve. I pressed down. I lifted up. Wiggled and pulled. What remains?
Ah. I knelt down and felt for the minuscule lever. This time I pushed.
The lever moved straight back, perhaps an inch. I heard a soft snick from the recessed lever—and then a click from the door.
The door, as corroded as it appeared, made not a sound as it swung open on greased hinges. I could see light not far off, but I hesitated. This door had no reassuring wheel and locking mechanism on its inside face. I felt all over its surface and could find no way to reopen the door once it closed behind me—I felt only the wide bolt that slid from the door’s frame into the iron jamb.
Again, what if the door closed behind me and I couldn’t open it from the other side? Fear of being sealed deep inside the mountain surged up from my stomach into my throat.
I walked back up the tunnel a few feet, fighting off the panic. Go on, I lectured my fearful self. After all, if you weren’t going to see this through, why did you come?
I turned back. And had an idea.
I stripped off my left glove and slid it onto the fat bolt, then closed the door. As I’d hoped, it couldn’t lock with the glove wedged between the door and the bolt hole. It was easy to pull the door open again.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I stepped through the ironclad door into yet another passageway carved out of the rock. I pulled the door closed, but with the glove over the bolt I could still open it.
I played my light on the wall to the left of the door and found a niche that mirrored the one on the other side. I felt inside. A similar lever.
All right, then.
I retrieved my glove and allowed the door to close naturally.
Somewhat relieved on that score, I looked down the passageway. The light ahead didn’t seem far away, so I switched off my little penlight and went forward. The passage took an abrupt 90 degree left turn and narrowed. The ceiling dipped, too; I had to stoop to go on.
The light ahead grew brighter. I walked, bent over, for about five feet when the wall on my right ended and my next steps were out in the open. I straightened and found myself walking out into a domed room. I guess “cavern” is a better description, although I was certain it, too, had been manmade.
The ceiling of the cavern was about twenty feet high. Soft lights ensconced in the cavern walls lit the perimeter and fell upon a heap of chairs, desks, and equipment piled haphazardly against the cavern walls. I wended my way through the stacks of furniture, all of which carried a fine coat of dust, until I stood perhaps ten feet from where I’d entered the cavern.
I looked back to fix the location of the passage’s entrance (my escape!) in my mind—and stopped to admire how well disguised that exit was. To the unschooled eye, it would have appeared that I had stepped right out of the cavern’s wall. The crack or cleft from which I’d emerged was shielded, undetectable unless a person was cl
ose enough to discern the overlap between the rock walls.
I memorized the shape of the stones above my exit and the pieces of furniture strewn or stacked nearby. Then I moved toward the center of the cavern—not far away, really—where I could see equipment or machinery. No human activity made itself heard.
I walked straight toward the equipment until I stood on the perimeter of a small, but pristine laboratory setup: rows of workbenches, computers, monitors, equipment, and a tall glass structure.
“Hello, Gemma.”
Chapter 8
The words came from behind me, warmer and friendlier than I’d remembered. I turned.
“Hi, Dr. Bickel.”
Neither of us spoke as I studied the scientist and he studied me. He appeared just as tired as he had the last time I’d seen him. He was pale, too, and thinner, perhaps. Maybe he seemed a bit more relaxed—he was certainly more relaxed than he’d been during the contentious exchange I’d witnessed between him, Dr. P, and General Cushing!
Complete silence reigned in the low-ceilinged cavern. It was eerie. Disquieting. I felt the need to break the silence.
“I followed your directions.”
Well, of course you did. Splendid opening.
He nodded, his features softening further. “Yes, and I’m glad to see you looking well, Gemma. I’ve been, er, keeping an eye on you, a little afraid that they would do something, um, harmful to you.”
I blinked, surprised. “To me?”
“Oh, yes. You do a masterful job with that innocent ‘Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about’ air, but anyone with a brain who cared to look a little deeper would know it’s an act—a well-played act, but an act nonetheless.”
He sighed. “I know what you overheard that morning in the conference room after I stormed out. And I know you played dumb when General Cushing confronted you. So for a while I was concerned that they would see through your ruse and, um, take steps to silence you.”
My head started to shake back and forth, just a little, denying the ominous significance of his words, but his low chuckle cut me off. It was a rich, unexpected sound. I decided that I liked it.
Well, this day is just filled with surprises.
Dr. Bickel took my hand and squeezed it. “Gemma, Gemma. You must have learned a long time ago—probably when you were a child—to make yourself less than obvious. You do it so well, so convincingly, that practically no one notices you!”
He grinned and squeezed my hand again. I hadn’t seen Dr. Bickel grin before, either. It made his tired eyes all squishy, but in a nice way.
Still shaking my head, I found myself smiling with him. “I-I think you may be the only one who’s ever noticed.”
“My dear young lady, you should have been a spy or a professional poker player. Or a politician. I’ve watched you maintain the same give-nothing-away air indefinitely. You never stray from character; and, as far as I’ve seen, you have no ‘tells’ when you’re bluffing or dissimulating.”
Sheesh. Guess he has me pegged.
It was all very flattering.
It was practically embarrassing.
“Gemma, I think—no, I’m convinced—that, under the dull façade you so convincingly wear, you are a bright, intelligent woman. Oh, not, perhaps in a ‘rocket scientist’ kind of way, but rich in savvy. Yes, I’ve observed you, you know. You, in that conference room, ostensibly taking notes, all the while absorbing everything said and filing it away in that steel trap you carry around inside your head.”
He paused and studied me. “You haven’t been able to find a job, have you.” It wasn’t a question, just a bald statement.
I didn’t blink, though. Not a micro-muscle in my face moved.
Dr. Bickel just nodded again, but his eyes were kind. Compassionate. “Cushing made sure you’d never get another security clearance.”
This time I replied. “I figured.”
He studied me for a few seconds more. “There you go again. Giving away nothing.”
He looked out over the lab. “Well, then. I did invite you to come, so you’re my guest. How would you like to see what I’ve been doing here?”
“Not yet, please.”
The brows over his tired eyes lifted. “Ah, yes. You need to know how it is that I’m alive, am I right?”
“Yes. And why you’ve asked me here, considering that I broke about fifty laws along the way.”
“Perfectly understandable. Let’s see. I think you’d prefer the short answer first, long answer after, yes?”
I nodded again, still amazed at how very amiable Dr. Bickel was, still struggling to account for the marked change in his personality.
“All right,” he agreed. “The short answer is: I’m alive because I knew what Prochanski and Cushing were planning and stayed ahead of it.”
“How? How did you know?” I kept my expression neutral.
“My expertise is in mathematics, in three-dimensional modeling, and in the development and programming of complex algorithms. That’s all done on computers. Along the way I became a bit of an adept, er, hacker.”
I spotted a humorous gleam in his eyes.
Sure, pal. But enough to defeat Sandia’s security? I said nothing, just kept looking at him.
He lifted one brow. “But I didn’t need to hack a classified network, Gemma. I merely placed bugs where I needed them, to record what I needed to hear.”
He’d done it again—answered a question I hadn’t yet asked! “In the conference room, too?” Totally against all DOE policy? I sounded a bit incredulous.
Dr. Bickel smirked. “At last some real emotion. Again, I didn’t need to. To be frank, dear girl, I used a Trojan horse of sorts to gain access to certain, ah, conversations to which I desired to be privy. To that end I planted a ‘bug’ on your laptop.”
“On my laptop!” If I hadn’t been so flummoxed I would have been outraged.
“Yes; not in it, but on it. Wherever you took your laptop, you took me. The bug was basically a flash memory recorder with a short-range transmitter. Voice activated. Flat, the diameter of a pencil eraser. It recorded everything said near it and transmitted the audio files to me. Your office was next to mine. That’s all the range I needed to download the conversations.”
He coughed. “By the by, I removed the bug the afternoon you were let go. When I came to say goodbye. Found another location for it after Security returned your laptop to IT.”
I searched my memories, tracing them to that afternoon when he handed me his card—when I looked away as the Sandia security officer came through the door.
Had he leaned that far over my cubicle wall? And then, But if he had my laptop bugged, that means—
I tugged my thoughts into line. “So that’s how you knew what General Cushing and Dr. P talked about in the conference room that morning? What they were planning to do to you? And what happened when they realized that I was still there?”
Other, more embarrassing ramifications started to sink in.
He knows. He knows I spied on him. I took my laptop to my weekly meetings with Dr. P. That means Dr. Bickel heard everything I reported to Dr. P.
I swallowed, fully expecting him to censure me for my deceitfulness.
Dr. Bickel merely nodded. I was positive he knew what I was thinking, yet he only responded to my questions. “Yes, I heard. The Pinterest board was a superb piece of deflection on your part, Gemma. Why, you almost convinced me.”
His eyes twinkled as he said it. One corner of my mouth tipped up, then the other. We laughed.
Dr. Bickel sobered first. “It’s good that you were so convincing or Cushing might not have insisted that you be sent packing. She might have, instead, had Prochanski keep you around and have him send you on an errand into the lab when the ‘accident’ was scheduled to occur.”
I slipped on a vacant expression, but inside I shivered. “So how did Dr. P end up dead and you, um, didn’t? How did you escape?”
“Oh, yes. That. Prochanski and Cus
hing’s plan was for Rick, Tony, and me to perish together; however, I knew not only their timeline, but also their means.” Dr. Bickel’s voice roughened. A little anger was seeping through. “Quite the clever device, it was, too. It was designed and placed to point to human error—an error they intended to ascribe to me.”
He turned red, and I thought his outrage a little comical, given the more serious intent of the plot. I kept that opinion to myself.
“Prochanski announced that we were to demonstrate one of our findings to a DOE bigwig. The detonation was set to take place fifteen minutes before the demonstration was scheduled—right when Prochanski knew the three of us, the intended targets, would be in the lab setting up the experiment. In reality, there was no demonstration or DOE bigwig. Prochanski just needed to ensure that the three of us—Rick, Tony, and I—would be in the lab when the explosion occurred.
“Unbeknownst to Prochanski and Cushing, I knew their schedule and I had located the device. I adjusted the time on the device they’d planted. I moved it up three hours. I sent Rick and Tony on an errand off base before the real detonation so that only Prochanski and I would be in the lab when it actually went off. I assured Prochanski that Rick and Tony would be back in plenty of time to set up for the ‘demonstration.’
“Of course when the device did detonate, Rick and Tony were still off base and Prochanski thought he had three more hours to get out. He planned his exit accordingly.”
Dr. Bickel made a “tsking” sound that was disturbing in its indifference. “They did try to kill me, after all.”
I frowned. “But obviously you weren’t in the lab when it, um, exploded and burned. And yet the media aired security footage of you and Dr. P entering the lab and never leaving. I watched footage of the two of you working on opposite sides of the lab right up until the explosion.”
Over and over. Like a hundred times, I didn’t add.
Dr. Bickel chuckled. “Yes; we were there, but someone altered the timestamp at the ‘end’ of the footage. Had to have been Cushing’s doing—after her people did not discover my body in the wreckage. Cushing knew then that I’d foiled her plan and was on the run, so she had to convince everyone else that I was dead. If I were dead and she caught me, she could do whatever she liked with me.”
Stealthy Steps Page 11
