Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1

by GJ Fortier

  “This way, sir.” Greg gestured in the opposite direction. “All of this is just as it seems. Except that all of the personnel are airmen, federal employees, and civilian contractors. But, like Cindy, none of them have any idea what's happening”—exaggeratedly, he pointed at the floor—“down there. With one exception.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. The driver of the truck parked on the side of the building.”

  “Really?”

  “Come take a look at this.” They stopped at the end of the hall at another open door.

  Kitchens saw that the room was essentially identical to Cindy's office. He could hear the faint sound of a diesel engine through the wall.

  “Have a seat. There's much more here than meets the eye.” Greg raised his eyebrows for emphasis as he closed the door.

  “Yes, I gathered as much.”

  Greg's smile faded. “Sir, I'm sorry. I mentioned the driver of the truck outside.”

  “Yup?” Kitchens said, his patience wearing thin.

  “Eight trucks are rotated in and out at different times of the day, each one painted differently to make them less noticeable. They have four functions. The first is to provide emergency back-up power for the facility. See, while the store draws power from the local electric company, the facility is supplied with power independently. Second, they help mask the sound of the diesel engines in the basement that provide primary power.”

  Greg had the senator’s interest now. When he flew in that morning, he had expected to be driven to some out-of-the-way building on the base for this visit, not to some kind of James Bond clandestine facility.

  Greg continued. “The third is to transfer personnel and supplies in and out of the facility.”

  “Come again?” Kitchens asked.

  “There are over a dozen technicians and security personnel down there at any given time. They are brought in that way so as not to arouse suspicion. Everything for the facility has to be delivered in those trucks.”

  “They don't just come in through the front door?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, how?”

  “The forth function of the trucks is to provide noise cover for the facility’s other mechanisms.”

  “Noise cover? What other mechanisms?”

  Greg picked up the phone on the desk, punched in a code, and listened.

  Kitchens barely heard a male voice say, “Stand by.”

  Greg replaced the receiver and said. “Oh, and to answer your question, yes, the store does make a profit.”

  The senator turned with a start when he heard the sound of metal bolts sliding into the door behind him. “What?”

  “You asked me if the store turns a profit, when we were outside. When I did the numbers on the facility”—the senator wasn't listening, but was staring at the door in stunned silence—“they also gave me all of the store’s financials. I had lots of time on my hands, so I did the P and L. Cindy's a heck of a manager.” As Greg spoke, he was taking great pleasure in the senator’s reaction to what was happening around them. “Actually, she's due a bonus.” He thought for a moment. “But then, I guess it’s easy to turn a profit when all of the employees are paid by the government. There’s no payroll expense, except for Cindy.”

  The senator’s eyes were wide as he glanced around the room. The sound of machinery doing whatever it was doing to the structure of the room continued. And Greg was enjoying it.

  A series of clicks emanated from the senator’s left. He turned toward the new sound just as the wall abruptly moved out away from the rest of the room. The sound of diesel engines was suddenly amplified and there was a thud, thud, thud as the entire wall disappeared into the floor. The space beyond was the dull gray cinder block of the outer wall, five feet from where the wall had been. A metal grated platform spanned the width.

  Greg yelled over the din, “We have fifteen seconds, sir.”  He handed the senator a small plastic bag containing a set of earplugs, stepped on to the metal grate, and motioned for him to follow as he checked his watch.

  When Kitchens didn't move, Greg took his hand, pulling him out of the chair and forward. “Eight seconds,” he shouted as they moved onto the grate. Seconds later, the wall rose and returned to its former position. Kitchens froze, his back to the cinder block wall.

  It was dark, but there was some light coming from below and to the right. Nothing was yet distinguishable. The senator fumbled with the plastic bag, placed the plugs in his ears, and shut his eyes, letting them adjust. The air was cool and dry with the slightest hint of diesel fumes. When he opened his eyes, he saw the major looking disdainfully at the unlit light bulb on the wall to Kitchens’ left.

  Greg tapped the bare bulb to no avail. Turning, he smiled and motioned for the senator to move to his right and down the metal staircase that he could now see in the low light.

  It led them down about twenty feet to a large room. Scanning around, Kitchens could see the room was square with cement columns placed strategically about to support the ceiling. There were pipes and conduits running in all directions around the room. For fuel and exhaust? He wondered.

  Everything was featureless and gray, and the fluorescent lights around the perimeter did nothing but intensify the drabness. In the center were six diesel generators along with three rows of metal racks, thirty feet long and eight feet high, where row upon row of heavy-duty batteries were resting. Four gray conduits ran along the floor leading from the batteries and disappearing into a twenty-foot wide corridor to the north. Kitchens guessed that it was of older construction than the room itself, its walls being much rougher. It sloped downward slightly, descending deeper into the earth. At ten feet, the corridor’s ceiling was only half as high as the room’s, and was lit by more fluorescent lights along its length. To the right of the corridor were three golf carts parked in the northeast corner of the room. Next to the carts were six red tool safes, three-and-a-half feet tall, lined one next to another along the eastern wall, and a large seven by eight gray metal cabinet, its doors closed.

  Greg was standing next to a metal platform that was resting flush with the floor. It was six by ten feet with three foot metal railings mounted on three sides. A chain was hung across the opening. Above it was a similar six by ten foot metal plate in the ceiling. The senator reasoned that the semi truck was parked directly above them and that this was the mechanism used to transfer personnel and supplies into and out of the facility.

  Greg pointed to one of the golf carts and began moving in its direction. He climbed behind the wheel and, with the senator beside him, started down the corridor. As they drove away from the noise of the engines, they removed their earplugs.

  “How far down are we going?”

  “The corridor continues down to about three hundred feet but slopes back up to two hundred where the complex is located.”

  Kitchens’ nerves were settled now, as he began prioritizing the myriad of questions he had in his head.

  Greg allowed him some time to collect his thoughts. Due to the speed restrictions, it would take nearly fifteen minutes to go the three point three miles to the facility, so they had some time.

  The air was damp and much cooler now, with a musty smell. Kitchens saw yellow markers on the walls, left and right, at what he guessed to be one hundred yard intervals. In the middle of each section was a barrel-sized opening near the ceiling covered with a metal grate. “Why does it go so far down and then back up?”

  “The complex is located in an old bomb shelter built in the 1950s. This corridor was designed as a gas trap.”

  “A gas trap?”

  “Yes, sir. In the event of a chemical or biological attack, the entire corridor can be flooded.”

  “Flooded?” Kitchens was slightly alarmed at the thought. “That's why this place is so close to the river isn't it?” It was then that he noticed the walls glistening with moisture and the large shallow puddles of water along their path. At what he guessed must be the midpoint of
their journey, the floor changed from solid concrete to metal grates stretching the length of an entire one-hundred yard section. Beneath was a void, but it was impossible to tell how deep. A drain?

  Greg saw concern on the senator’s face. “Not to worry. I think they flooded it once decades ago, but they probably stopped maintaining the pumps when the Cold War ended.”

  That information did little to comfort the senator. “How much further is it?”

  “About five minutes.”

  “You’d better call the general and tell her I'll meet her for dinner rather than lunch.”

  6 Sistema Chac Luum

  “SO, THE FACILITY ACTUALLY is on the base. Or rather, under it,” Kitchens concluded.

  “Yes, sir,” the major affirmed as he drove the last few hundred yards of tunnel.

  “Then, why isn't there an entrance on the base?”

  “Well, sir, there is. Anyone who cares enough to ask knows where it is. It's common knowledge.”

  “Then why did we have to drive out to the store and come in this way?”

  “Because the powers-that-be don't want to call any attention to the work that's being done here. They didn't want anyone seeing personnel and materials going in and out of the place. At least that's what I've been told.”

  Before he arrived, Kitchens believed the cost of the project was due to the construction of the tunnel, but it was now obvious that the tunnel was much older than the generator room.

  As if he had read Kitchens’ thoughts, the major continued. “The tunnel was part of the original construction. It led to an emergency exit that was hidden where the store is. The generator room was constructed along with the store.”

  They had been steadily traveling for about six minutes when a wall appeared out of the darkness. At least it looked like a wall, dull gray like everything else. As they approached, a horn sounded, startling the senator as it reverberated through the tunnel. Yellow caution lights began flashing as the sound of heavy machinery mixed with the blaring horn.

  “Sorry. I should have warned you about that.”

  Kitchens was hardly paying attention to the noise as the wall ahead began to move. It swung slowly open toward them from right to left. The enormous door spanned the entire width and height of the tunnel. Its inner mechanisms resembled something he recalled seeing in a movie. There was a line of ten bolts going up the inside of the doorframe, each individual bolt six inches in diameter. On the wall, floor, and ceiling opposite where the door would line up was an equal number of sockets. The door itself was more than three feet thick.

  “It weighs over twenty-five tons,” Greg explained.

  Kitchens expected a team of armed guards to greet them from the other side. Seeing none, he was a bit disappointed.

  The entire process of the door’s opening and closing took nearly three minutes. Beyond the entrance was a large rectangular room with incandescent bulbs burning on the walls, doing little to illuminate the space. Inside the nondescript room were seven more golf carts of varying designs. The two stored in the northeast corner had flat beds. Greg pulled their cart behind the others and parked. When he got out, he plugged the power cord into a socket in the floor and allowed Kitchens some time to process what he was seeing.

  The senator stepped out of the cart and turned slowly as he scanned the room. There were pallets of material still shrink-wrapped and stacked against the western wall. Most had cardboard boxes, a few had what looked like medical equipment of some sort, dozens had white five-gallon buckets stacked one on top of another. There were antiquated hospital beds, wheelchairs, and two more toolboxes matching the ones in the generator room. A pair of pallet jacks and a number of other items the senator could not immediately identify were neatly stored out of the way, waiting to be of use.

  The largest single item in the room completed the garage feel of the place. An Air Force blue 1959 Ford F-600 tanker truck was nestled in the southeast corner, shrink wrapped in clear plastic like the rest.

  Kitchens walked over and peered through the film at the front end and studied it. It looked as if it had come directly from the assembly line. “Is there fuel in this?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe there is, but all of the other fluids were drained out decades ago.”

  Kitchens smirked. “We oughta have a yard sale. It would help pay for this place.”

  Greg found the light switch in the north corridor as the senator was still studying the room’s contents. The fluorescent lights made the white walls of this new hall seem to glow in stark contrast to the gloom of the big room where Kitchens was standing. Twenty feet inside was another wall with a door in the middle resembling something on a submarine minus any kind of handle. Greg punched a code into a hidden keypad and the door slid open. Lights flickered on inside to reveal a small corridor stretching about forty feet with four similar doors on the right and left, ending in another submarine-type door, this one with a circular handle at its center.

  As the senator approached, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before in the low light of the big room. There was a plaque hanging over the entrance with the foreign words Sistema Chac Luum.

  “What's that?”

  “The plaque?” Greg asked, following the senator’s gaze.

  “Yeah. Is it Latin?”

  Greg moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with the senator. “No, sir. It's Mayan.”

  Kitchens frowned. “Mayan?”

  “Yes, sir. It means red earth system.”

  “Red earth system?” Kitchens repeated. The name made sense. Georgia was known for its red clay. “Why Mayan?”

  Greg smiled, pleased with himself that he had taken the time to find out during one of the endless days of boredom since his posting here. “In October 2002, a guy named Schmitner discovered an underwater cave in Quintana Roo, Mexico, in the eastern part of the Yucatan Peninsula. He named the cave Sistema Chac Luum because of the red earth in the area. So, when they reopened this complex, someone named it after that cave. You know, for red Georgia clay.”

  Kitchens stared at him, dumbfounded that the major knew the answer in so much detail. If, in fact, he hadn't made it up.

  Greg again read the senator’s mind. “Combine Wikipedia with a whole lotta time on my hands, and voila.”

  “Okay,” Kitchens said. “So, we go in there I take it?” He pointed to the open door.

  “Yes, sir. We'll change in there.”

  “Change?”

  “Yes, sir. Beyond the changing room is a clean environment.”

  “Seriously?” Kitchens was amused by the whole idea.

  “Seriously,” Greg repeated, gesturing for the senator to enter.

  * * * * *

  “C’MON, DOC,” JIMMY pleaded.

  “You should have recorded it,” Tiong answered.

  “I forgot.” Jimmy hung his head and fidgeted with his clipboard.

  The two were standing in the middle of the main storeroom. Professor Yeoum Chi, the team leader, insisted an inventory be performed each Friday. And since their procurement specialist had been cut from the team, the responsibility had been passed to Tiong.

  Doctor Juan Tiong was the team’s veterinarian. Though he was born in Manila, people often mistook him as Mexican because of his small frame and dark features. From an early age, little Juan had loved animals. A diligent student, he attended Brent International School where he also excelled at soccer. He received an athletic scholarship to the University of the Philippine’s College of Veterinary Medicine, where he received his doctorate in 2003. Soon after, his family pooled their resources and immigrated to the United States, settling in San Francisco. There they opened a small Filipino Grocery. Tiong did a lengthy internship from August 2003 to June 2005 at Westchester Animal Hospital outside of New York City. After that, he earned his certification from Mississippi State University College of Veterinary Medicine in 2006, and then moved back home to San Francisco where he joined a small practice.

  Like Ju
ne, he was approached by the Department of the Interior nineteen months ago and was asked to join the team after the unfortunate and untimely death of the program’s previous veterinarian. Tiong's predecessor was traveling to McMaster, the original site of the project, when his vehicle slid off of the icy highway and hit an embankment, killing him instantly. Tiong had been assured that the project would last only eighteen months, and since the money they offered him was more than adequate, he agreed.

  During the first few months at McMaster, he had often wondered if he had made a huge mistake. His duties were light. He’d had only one pair of chimpanzees to look after then, and they were in very good health. His biggest problem he had faced was the fact that Professor Yeoum had been a long-time friend of the previous vet. Yeoum had worked with the man for over eighteen years, ever since the professor had immigrated to the United States. Yeoum began to push all of the “messy” work onto Tiong, and was constantly critical of him. But after some time had passed, Yeoum began to warm up to him. Tiong suspected the man simply wanted someone older to relate to. At thirty-seven, the veterinarian was the oldest team member, next to the professor who was seventy-three.

  “You forgot?” Tiong asked doubtfully. “Jimmy, there's TiVo in your room and in the parlor. And,” he paused for emphasis, “you were the one who volunteered to help me, remember?”

  “That's before I knew how boring it was going to be. Besides, I didn't know it was going to take hours and hours,” Jimmy whined.

  “It takes as long as it takes every time. What made you think it was going to take less time today?”

  Tiong usually did the inventory with the major. He could have easily done it by himself, and, in all likelihood, it wouldn't take as long. But he decided this would be an exercise in patience for Jimmy, the youngest member of the team. Besides, he had gotten used to having someone to talk to, to break up the tedium.

  “Please, Doc,” the younger man pleaded, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around Tiong's knees. “You can watch it with me.”

  “I don't like science fiction.”

  “Oh, you'll like this one. It has lots of exotic alien animals.”

  “You've seen it, then?

  Jimmy released the doctor and sat back on his legs. “Hello! Avatar is only the number one movie of all time.”