by Sean Ellis
She checked her watch again. Eleven minutes until the next eruption, and they had reached the event horizon—it was time to decide. “Go back!” she shouted without turning her head.
“Only if you do.”
The blood rushing in her ears effectively drowned out the sound of his footsteps, and she had no idea that he was so close. But his almost immediate response indicated that he was only a step or two behind.
Damn him. She did not waste the breath to make the curse audible. Then, suddenly, it didn’t matter any more. The flare’s pinkish flame reflected off of a metal surface ten meters ahead in their path, and before Mira could come to a complete halt, the vent tunnel ended.
“This is it,” she breathed, extending her hands against the wall, absorbing the last of her forward momentum. DiLorenzo skidded to a stop half a step behind her.
The slope of the passage changed abruptly, opening into a roughly spherical chamber fifteen feet across. The walls, like the sides of the passageway, bore the marks of human labor. The floor, however, was nothing like what she expected.
Instead of rough-hewn stone, they found themselves standing on a grillwork platform of metal, faintly dulled by the passage of time. Wisps of steam rose through the spaces, hiding from view whatever lay beneath the platform.
“It’s hot in here.” DiLorenzo’s offhand comment seemed forced, a breathless attempt to hide his trepidation.
“We’re standing on top of the geyser.” Mira checked her watch. “Nine minutes until it erupts again.”
“It took longer than that just to get here.”
She dropped to her knees and probed the hot metal grid with her hands. A flash of pain reminded her of the injury sustained during the previous eruption, but gritting her teeth, she locked her fingers through the grating and lifted.
The metal was heavier than she had been prepared for, and the pain more intense. After a moment of struggling, the section of grating seemed to rise effortlessly, swinging away to reveal a three-foot-square gap in the platform, framed by girders of a similar metal. Only when she let go of the grating, permitting it to fall, did she realize that DiLorenzo had been helping her lift the heavy screen.
The detective let go of the grating, allowing it to crash noisily onto the platform. “Now what?”
Mira gestured at the hole, then shrugged out of the rope coil. “We go down.”
“Down? That’s your plan?”
She silenced him with a dangerous glance, then extended the flare out over the opening and let it fall. The orange brilliance revealed an intricate web of metal girders and curving surfaces before vanishing completely into the inky depths below. DiLorenzo withheld further commentary, shifting impatiently on his feet as she lit another flare. She then knelt and began feeding a loop of rope through the platform grating, tying it in a simple bowline knot, and allowed the rest to drop into the hole. Only then did she face him again, her eyes flashing dangerously in the flame of her torch.
“Wait for my signal.” Before he could even think to question her, she dropped from view, abseiling into the void beneath the platform.
What she had seen the instant before the first flare winked out only confirmed her suspicions. The platform was part of a larger structure, built entirely of metal and designed to harness the energy of the geyser. In an unparalleled feat of engineering, Mann had capped the geyser, creating an enormous boiler and steam turbine. Though it seemed difficult to believe that the machinery constructed sixty-odd years previously was still functional, the lethal power of the geyser itself was beyond question.
The rope burned against the padded leather palm of her fingerless gloves as she squeezed it in her grip, slowing her virtual free fall. An instant later her feet touched another metal grating, forty feet below the platform. She flexed her legs to absorb the impact of her landing but kept a firm hold on the rope lest the walkway collapse under the sudden burden. A ripple of kinetic energy caused catwalk to groan and undulate, but the tremor passed without any compromise to the structure.
The narrow walkway was a bridge spanning the distance from the rough-hewn rock on one side to a curving wall of dull metal. Where it met the surface of the boiler the catwalk split in either direction, taking the immense structure in the circle of its embrace. Mira’s destination, however, lay the opposite way.
A short dash brought her to a landing braced against the stone wall of the chamber. Framed in chiseled basalt was a rectangular, metal hatchway about one and a half meters high and half as wide. Her grin of triumph melted when, despite pouring all her remaining energy into the effort, the flywheel latch mechanism refused to move.
The catwalk groaned and shuddered a second time as DiLorenzo crashed loudly onto the metal span. Though the platform where she stood was securely anchored, the sound of rivets bursting from the joints of the walkway and pinging like bullets against the metal and stone prompted Mira to clutch the flywheel until the rocking motion subsided. A glance over her shoulder found her companion lying sprawled on the catwalk, similarly holding on for dear life. He remained motionless a moment longer, fearful that movement might cause the span to collapse beneath him, and then cautiously rose to his feet.
“What was the signal again?” His quip, obviously rehearsed prior to his near-disastrous descent, seemed forced, a desperate and insincere attempt to hide his terror behind a facade of bravado. Mira nevertheless returned a quick smile.
The hatchway was secured with a watertight door of the type used to seal off compartments in a submarine. The flywheel not only controlled four sliding steel bolts, but also served to pull the latch tight against the vulcanized rubber seal that framed the doorway. Years of disuse and corrosion had effectively welded both the wheel and the bolts in place. Though she braced her feet apart, twisting with all her might, Mira could not get the wheel to move.
As soon as he reached her, DiLorenzo wordlessly joined in the effort, gripping one side of the wheel and augmenting her efforts from a different angle, but to no avail. After a few seconds of intense effort, his muscles, already fatigued from the long climb up the rock face, failed, and he fell back shaking with exhaustion.
“It’s no good,” he panted.
Before she could reply, rebuking him for his defeatism, a low rumble vibrated along the unstable catwalk, followed by a shrieking noise that quickly reverberated in the narrow confines of the cavern, growing to ear-shattering intensity in a matter of seconds. Despite the darkness, both could see the expanding cloud of steam billowing from the top of the boiler. Mira didn’t need to check her watch to know that they had run out of time.
TEN
Instantaneously, the air around the catwalk became opaque, distorted by a curtain of steam that billowed from the top of the boiler. Though the vapor was not quite hot enough in itself to scald them, the air temperature was rising rapidly.
DiLorenzo continued to struggle with the flywheel, bunching his shoulders in an effort to break the weld of time and oxidization. Mira however, inexplicably released her hold on the metal ring and took a step back.
“What?” DiLorenzo gasped the syllable in disbelief, and immediately felt the force of his own resolve falter.
In a fluid motion, Mira unslung the pump-action shotgun from her pack, gripping the stock in both hands. She then stepped forward, stabbing the stubby steel barrel through the center of the wheel.
Comprehension dawned quickly as the detective watched her place the full burden of her weight on the end of the makeshift lever. Even so, it was not enough.
“Let me,” he shouted, gripping her shoulder and pulling her out of the way. The maneuver caught her off guard and she stumbled backwards as DiLorenzo threw himself onto the butt of the shotgun, driving down with all the mass and power he could muster.
As Mira scrambled to regain her balance, she heard a tortured shriek of metal. Once the resistance was broken, the wheel yielded completely, dumping DiLorenzo forward. His forehead glanced off of the door, and his eyes were filled with
a flash of blue light. Then nothing.
Montero prodded the coarse earth with his toe. Years of big game hunting had taught him how to read the subtle signs left by the passing of man or beast, but those skills were hardly necessary to discern that two people had camped overnight on the ground before him. Though they had built no fire, nor left any other permanent spoor, the outline of bodies on the gravely soil was evident even to the least observant tracker in their party.
Delacortes confirmed the obvious. “This is where my men last reported from. They said the people you are seeking had camped up the ridge a ways.”
“Then what happened, señor? Where are your men now? There was no fight here.” Montero squinted at the soil again, this time looking for foot tracks. “Your men deserted their post.”
“They will be punished.” Delacortes’ reply was hasty, but rang of insincerity. Nevertheless, Montero could hear the agitation in his voice.
“That does not concern me. We can pick up the trail for ourselves.”
“We will be unable to use the vehicles.”
“Our foe is also on foot.” Montero swung his eyes toward the ridge above. “We are very close, Señor Delacortes. But this bitch . . . when she is backed into a corner, she fights. We must be cautious.”
DiLorenzo opened his eyes lazily, squinting in a vain attempt to focus. Two blurry Miras floated in his view. “Did I fall asleep?”
She did not smile. “I think you may have a concussion.”
The strange quiet of their surroundings, glowing pink in the light of a burning flare, seemed to counterpoint an urgency that DiLorenzo was hard pressed to recall. He gradually remembered that they had been on the verge of death, but the details, like his vision, remained foggy.
“You should be in a hospital,” she continued, her tone without a trace of humor. She was kneeling, bent over his supine form and holding an instant cold compress from her first aid kit against his forehead. “But I suppose that’s not really an option.”
DiLorenzo mumbled a vague reply. There was no pain, but he knew that would follow all too soon. “What happened?”
“You saved us.”
“Oh. Good.”
The corner of Mira’s mouth curled slightly. “Yes. You’ll do as a sidekick, but in the future try to avoid cracking your head.”
The hissing illumination provided by the flare revealed a narrow corridor similar to the one that had cut diagonally into the heart of the mountain. This passage however was horizontal, leading away from the heavy steel door for a distance of about twenty meters, where it ended at another door. Stenciled letters painted on the steel surfaces announced a message that was wholly foreign to the detective. “German?”
Mira nodded. “Mann’s secret Nazi bunker. We’ve come in the back door, though I’m not certain the front entrance was ever finished.”
“Does that mean we’ll be leaving . . . ?” He finished the question by gesturing at the closed door behind them.
“Not if I can help it.” She glanced back toward the door at the end of the corridor. “First things first. Think you’re up to having a look around the place?”
“I’ll manage.” With her assistance, he struggled to his feet. The passage seemed to be heaving chaotically the closer he came to standing erect. He closed his eyes, bracing one hand against the wall, waiting for the moment of vertigo to pass. “What does the door say?”
“It’s a reminder to keep both doors shut. Below that it says: ‘Stairs to parade grounds.’”
DiLorenzo raised an eyebrow, instantly regretting the almost unseen gesture as a knifepoint of pain pierced his forehead. If she noticed, Mira said nothing to acknowledge his agony. Instead, she moved down the passage as far as the door and wrenched the flywheel until the bolts slid free. In the relatively dry environs of the access corridor, the mechanism had not suffered from the corrosion that had befouled the first door, nearly at the cost of their lives.
The doorway did indeed lead to a flight of descending stairs, cut directly into the gut-rock of the mountain. Wide enough for only one person to pass through at a time, the low ceiling added to the sensation of claustrophobia, looming ominously like the lid of a coffin. Despite the fact that there was ample clearance, Mira felt compelled to walk in a stooped position. The glow of her flare did not immediately reveal an end to the stairway.
The design made sense, she reasoned. The stairs and their upper terminus served only the most utilitarian purpose. The steam turbine was of necessity situated away from the main excavation, and appeared to have been designed to function without constant supervision. Indeed, the fact that it still regulated itself, bleeding off the pressure on a reliable twenty-minute schedule after more than sixty years of neglect, was a powerful testimony to the brilliance of its design. The stairs had likely been cut only for the purpose of an occasional maintenance inspection. Notwithstanding this, Mira could not help but wonder how much of the mountain Mann’s army of slaves had hollowed out in order to create the last bastion of German National Socialism.
The echo of DiLorenzo’s footsteps on the stone behind her filled the confined space, a strangely comforting sound. It was the only whisper of noise in the tomb of rock, but it was enough to offset the overwhelming claustrophobia. There was little else to occupy her senses. The light of the flare revealed little, and its sulfuric fumes effectively prevented any naturally occurring odors from reaching her nostrils. Based on prior experience, she knew this to be a blessing in disguise. With so little to mark their passage, Mira could feel a dangerous lethargy settling over her. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, reflexively letting one hand drop to the grip of her sidearm. Yet, despite her best efforts at restoring her vigilance, the abrupt change in the shadow took her by surprise.
The pistol was drawn in a blur of motion, springing into her hand as if it were a living thing. Her right hand rose, gripping the gun, finger already tightening on the three-pound trigger, though no target was in evidence. In the same motion, she lifted the flare over her head, throwing its pink-orange illumination down on the apparition.
Sensory input gradually began to filter through the suddenness of her reaction. She could hear DiLorenzo, struggling to draw his own weapon, asking for an explanation in a hoarse whisper. She did not answer immediately.
Moving the flare had changed the shape of the shadow confronting them, but not significantly. It remained a razor sharp line of darkness, cutting down the side of the passage to their right and filling their world with impenetrable night. With an almost audible sigh of relief, Mira relaxed the pressure on the trigger.
There was no threat from the lightlessness, only the surprise of the unexpected. The explanation was ridiculously simple. One side of the passageway had abruptly ended and opened into an unfathomable vastness that did not return the limited flickering light of the flare.
“What is it?” hissed DiLorenzo again, his voice urgent as he brandished the pistol at the wall of night.
Mira eased her finger from the trigger as she holstered the weapon. “Sorry. Jumping at shadows. However, I believe we have arrived at the parade grounds.”
She took a step forward, past the end of the confined passage, waving the flare to get a better estimation of what lay before them. Despite the grandiose description written on the sign they had earlier found, she was unprepared for what lay at the end of the stairway.
The flare could not begin to illuminate the immense chamber. In fact, its inadequate flame seemed to vanish into the darkness like a drop of rain into the ocean. Only a scant area in the foreground was laid bare to their eyes, but it was enough for them to begin to grasp the scope of what they had found.
The narrow staircase continued down for another twenty yards, hugging the wall of stone from which it had been hewn as it descended away from the end of the tunnel. Beyond lay a landing which turned to the right and opened onto a broad terrace of smooth stone extending in either direction beyond the sphere of illumination. Every descending step towar
d the terrace reinforced Mira’s impression of the sheer size of the chamber, but something else was revealed in the torchlight.
Although the passages through which they had entered the mountain fortress showed the unquestionable impact of human laborers, a history permanently tattooed into the living stone in the form of chisel marks and blast scars, the tunnels and steps had been strangely barren. No dust or debris, the typical litter associated with the presence of real people, remained to give evidence that anyone had ever walked there. The terrace however bore quite a different testimony.
Large patches of the stone were covered in dark stains, likely the excrement of rodents. Mira could distinguish rags of cloth, along with bits of metal and glass mixed in with these mounds. As they drew closer to the landing, even minute details became more apparent. In one dirty heap, Mira could make out the tiny round shape of a brass button. Another step showed the fastener still attached to a sleeve of dark cloth. Protruding from the blue material were two brittle yellow sticks: the radius and ulna bones of a human arm.
The terrace was approximately sixty feet across, butting up against the wall of the chamber on one side and opening once more into the void on the other. Though they could see no end to the broad walkway in either direction, there seemed to be a pronounced curve, suggesting that it probably circled back on itself, ringing the mysterious parade grounds. Mira waved the flare in a broad arc, then stepped off the landing and headed straight across the terrace to its mysterious inner edge.
DiLorenzo drew abreast of her as she peered out over the knee-high parapet that formed the only barrier between the terrace and the empty night beyond. “Well?”
She strained her eyes to pick out some detail in the blackness. Defeated, she shook her head and tried a different tactic. With a throw to rival an Olympian javelin toss, Mira hurled the half-spent flare out into nothingness.
