by David Wind
Blacky erupted from the trees, carrying both rifles at the ready. He reminded Chapin of a Rambo movie.
When Blacky reached him, Chapin took one of the rifles, sighted on the lock, and let go a three-round burst. The lock shattered, and the gate swung open.
Chapin half turned, and saw Blacky was sighting the rifle toward the plant building, waiting for someone to come out. When no one appeared, Chapin said, “It’s deserted. Let’s go.”
They went into the plant, bypassing the garage. Inside, and even without heat, the temperature was thirty degrees warmer than outside. They went to the stairs and up to the catwalk, bypassing the machinery below, which converted the mountain river’s powerfully running waters into electricity.
They reached the far side of the plant and a steel wall rising twenty feet into the air. The wall was two doors, twenty feet wide with a thin line showing where the two halves of the wall met.
“How do we get them open?” Chapin asked aloud.
“Here,” Blacky called, pointing to a control box with black-lettered Russian on its panel. By the time Chapin reached Blacky, the double agent had the panel open.
“We must start the plant,” Blacky said, his eyes darting nervously from Chapin to the panel.
“Those look like the instructions,” he said.
Blacky nodded in agreement. “But if there are people nearby? Soldiers?”
“We’ll have to take the chance. I must get inside.”
Blacky moistened his lips and nodded. “All right,” he said and pushed the first button.
A whirring noise came from beneath the floor, followed by the sound of an engine. “Generator,” Blacky said. “It is used to start the main plant. It has a battery backup,” Blacky said, pointing to the emergency instructions embedded in the panel. The first switch Blacky pushed had connected the solar back-up battery. The second button had started another generator that was the power to start the mini hydroelectric plant.
“Now,” Chapin said as Blacky’s finger hovered over a large switch.
Blacky threw the switch. The plant came alive around them. The doors to the river opened, and water rushed in. “How long?” Chapin asked.
Blacky shrugged as he looked around. “Not long,” he said. “The plant is already starting to give electricity.” He pointed to the lights coming on above them.
They waited five more minutes, until the overhead lights were strong and steady, and the sound of the plant was smooth in their ears.
Blacky pushed the large red button to his left, setting off a new whirring of machinery. A low screech echoed as the huge doors moved a half inch, stuck, and then started moving again.
A full minute later, Chapin and Blacky stepped through the open wall and onto a blacktopped road leading into an enormous cavern carved within the mountain.
The overhead lights in the stone ceiling, came on row after flashing row. Chapin took several more steps. When he reached a metal pole resembling a streetlight, he stopped, looked up, and his mind went numb.
“Oh…Fuck!” he said, as the first part of Sokova’s secret unfolded before his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“This is impossible,” Blacky’s eyes widened at the sight before him. “I see this on the television. I see this in my dreams. But this is not reality.”
Chapin swallowed rapidly. “It’s Sokova’s reality.”
He took another step forward, staring past the street sign that read PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, He looked ahead at the high, black wrought-iron fence surrounding the White House.
“It’s incredible,” he whispered, taking in the perfection of details. Even the plants, which lay dead and dying, were in the same pattern as on the White House lawn.
The guard buildings at the entrances were the same as the ones in Washington, D. C., as was the dying grass.
Chapin led Blacky through the front gate, up to the steps, and in through the double doors of the entrance. He stopped and shook his head.
Turning, Chapin looked out on the cavern. It was huge. The overhead lighting was now fully on. Chapin gazed into the distance, his mind unable to believe just how large the cavern was.
But even more unbelievable was the convoluted layout of the site: There was the White House, where they presently stood. Down the block was the vice president’s house, in an area that Chapin knew represented the Naval Observatory. A hundred yards farther into the cavern was another building, one he did not recognize as part of Washington.
That unfamiliar building had a red-brick facade; and above the doorway, a name was carved into the stone archway. But the distance prevented him from making out the name.
Then he looked toward the buildings extending out past the mountain, and saw one had a facade that reminded him of a ranch house.
What was it?
Shrugging, Chapin led Blacky inside the White House and up the stairs to the second floor. There, he found an abbreviated floor. He went to the Oval Office and looked around. He remembered the office from when he’d been there, six years before. It was an exact duplicate.
He went through the office, into the room behind it—the president’s private office. Again, he had the feeling he was in the real White House.
But why was it here? Chapin had heard about the many training sites in Russia, where parts of America had been duplicated. He had even seen photographs of the famous KGB training facility that duplicated a Midwestern city. But to build it inside a mountain didn’t make sense. The cost factor alone would have been astronomical.
Chapin, with Blacky trailing close, went into the next room, and found himself in the president’s bedroom. He looked around, wondering which president’s furniture this was.
Then he left the White House and went to the vice president’s home. He was certain that it was as accurate a duplication as the White House.
He left the building, and went toward the unfamiliar brick-front building he’d seen earlier. Again, he felt the enormity of the cavern. Pausing at the entrance, he looked up at the name engraved in stone, above the mahogany door. The Ditman Academy.
He entered the Ditman Academy, and stopped to look at the photographs on the wall. He read the names beneath them, and froze. Then he shook his head and walked on.
He went through a classroom, into another classroom, and then into a dormitory room.
He scanned everything on the walls, every picture, every item. He shook his head to clear it of the images, but could not.
The room itself had not been used for years. But it had been used in the past.
“What is it?” Blacky asked.
Chapin waved him off and left the building. He went to the outcrop building, and went inside. Following the hallway, Chapin opened the first door on his right.
he went to the center and looked at the far wall. He studied the photographs hanging there. The rows of photos, black-and-white and color formed a chronological biography, from boyhood to manhood, of the home’s occupant.
Chapin looked to the far wall, and the single painting on it. It was a landscape of the Grand Teton Mountains. Beneath the painting, a chessboard sat on a small table. The chessboard was as empty as the two chairs facing each other on either side of the board.
He left the room and went into the next. This was a bedroom. Although it was as unfamiliar as the other rooms, he knew it was an exact duplicate of a bedroom set thousands of miles away.
He went to the television, which was hooked up to a VCR, and looked at the shelves above the setup. Twenty or so videotapes, in black plastic cases, lined the shelves. The only identification on them were dates, all in chronological order.
Chapin pulled one at random, turned on the TV and VCR, and put it into the machine. He pushed the play button and waited.
A college football game filled the screen. The camera focused on a tall tight end as the play unfolded. The end ran a dogleg pattern, catching the ball on the ten-yard line. He made it to the three-yard line before being tackled.
Time was called,
and the end took off his helmet. Chapin saw the young face and shut off the tape. He took another tape down; this one dated in August of this year, and started it. He watched it for no more than ten seconds before shutting the machine off.
Swallowing hard, and steadying himself, Chapin walked out of the room, and out of the house. Blacky followed close behind. “What did you find?”
“The answer,” Chapin said. “Sokova’s plan.”
He walked past the school, past the vice president’s house, past the White House, and out through the large open steel doors. Inside the power plant, he turned and hit the switch to close the doors. When the doors closed with a dull clang, he flipped the switch and shut down the plant.
When they stepped outside, and into the darkness of the newly fallen night, Chapin breathed the cold and clean air. Could Sokova pull it off? Was it possible?
He looked over his shoulder at the chain link fence surrounding the power plant. The interior of the cavern rose up in his mind’s eye. He thought about the attempts on his life. The combination of events told him that it was more than just possible for Sokova to achieve his plan; it was an almost accomplished fact.
Blacky clasped his shoulder. He looked at the Soviet double agent and the unasked question on his face. “It’s bad, Blacky, very bad. It is also best if you do not know, yet.”
How could he tell Blacky he had finally learned that Robert Mathews had not been the target when his wife and son had died; rather, it was they who had been sanctioned all along?
How could he explain to Blacky why Mathews’ family had to die? Would the man really grasp the fact that their deaths were an essential part of Sokova’s plan? Chapin’s comprehension of Sokova’s plan was like understanding why a plague is necessary to balance the order of nature: Sokova intended to replace the vice president of the United States with his twin brother. Mathews’ wife—alone of all the people in the world—would have known the difference.
“We have to get back,” Chapin said, knowing that his only chance lay in stopping Sokova from finishing his plan.
“To Tashkent?”
“And then to America.” Chapin half-walked, half-ran to where they’d left the car. His mind raced. He’d found the ultimate answer; now he had to find the pieces of the puzzle that lay between now and the time Sokova planned on replacing Mathews.
<><><>
They reached the destroyed city of Tashkent a few minutes before one P.M., almost thirty-six hours from the time they had left, and parked the car in front of their sleeping quarters a half hour later. Taking turns sleeping and driving, they’d used all of the spare gas; and, luckily had not run out of gas, but it had been close. The gas gauge had been reading empty for the last seventy kilometers.
When they got out of the car, Chapin turned to Blacky. “Find out if there are any flights back to the States, in the next day or two that do not go to Moscow first.”
“I’ll see what there is,” Blacky promised before they went inside.
Abby was at her desk. She tensed when they entered the room, and then her eyes flicked to her left. He followed her direction and found two Soviet Army officers going over paperwork.
“Any messages?” he asked, walking to the desk.
She handed him a slip, and said, whispering, “Are you all right?”
He bent and brushed his lips across hers. “Fine. I’ll see you for dinner.”
“Meet me in our room, at five-thirty.”
He nodded to her, to the two officers, and left. Outside, he looked at the piece of paper. It was a note from Brannigan, asking him to meet her at the temporary press headquarters.
He walked the three blocks to the small building. During the walk, he noted more rescue workers on the streets than there had been the other day. There were soldiers, too, in uniforms of various countries. Each wore a UN armband. The additional help was good.
Signs in a half-dozen languages had been set above the entrance to the press headquarters. Each translated to the same word: Press.
Entering the building, he felt as though he were stepping into a different world. He smelled coffee and food. The hustle and bustle within the building was different from what was going on outside. Everywhere Chapin looked, press people talked into recorders, or sat at makeshift desks, writing their reports.
Across from him was a hastily erected bank of portable radio phones. Each was in use, and there were at least five people awaiting their turn.
Finally, Chapin spotted Brannigan. She was third in line for a phone. He didn’t go to her immediately; he studied her. She was staring straight ahead. Her features were pensive and distant. She held a yellow legal pad in her left hand.
He went up to her and tapped her shoulder. She turned. Her eyes widened, and a low sigh escaped her lips. “You made it.”
He smiled and nodded. “I got your note.”
“I wanted to know when you got back. Did you find anything?”
He nodded, once. “We’ll talk about it later. Are you calling Washington?”
“Yes. I have to file a story.”
“I need to speak to Ed. I’ll wait with you. May I?” he asked, looking at the yellow pad.
She handed it to him, and he began to read. Her story of the aftermath of the destruction of Tashkent gripped him strongly from the opening sentence to the last word. It was nine and a half hand-written pages long, and read magnificently.
When he finished reading, he saw that she was now next in line. He handed her the story. “That’s very good.”
“You love her, don’t you?” Brannigan asked.
He blinked. “Abby? Yes. Why?”
Brannigan shrugged. “Just curious.”
“The phone lines will be monitored. Remember that,” he cautioned. “What’s happening here? How are they handling the situation?”
“Not well.” Brannigan’s voice dropped. “I think there are a lot more than the forty-thousand casualties estimated by the Soviets. I think there are, perhaps, five times that number. The hospitals are past capacity, and they’ve cleared two more buildings to use as hospitals. The army is taking the dead out of town and putting them into mass graves. Identification is being done at the graves, not before.”
“Typical Soviet mentality—you don’t let anyone know the extent of the damage.”
“But the children, Kevin. There are so many.” Her voice caught on the last word.
Her emotions tugged on him. He put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently without speaking. His hand was still on her shoulder when, a few minutes later, their turn for the phone came.
Brannigan dialed the number and waited. When the call was connected, and she spoke to the editor-on-duty, she dictated the story. She finished and asked for Ed Kline. A moment later, she nodded to Chapin while saying, “Hello, boss. It’s bad here. Morgan wants to talk to you.” She listened a moment longer before handing Chapin the phone.
“Ed, I found the answer. Has Mathews called you yet?”
“Yes. He wanted to know if you’d contacted me with any news. He also wanted you to know that he’s working on your, ah, matter. He said that if you need him, he’ll be at home for the next week.”
“All right, Ed. Thanks. And, Ed, Brannigan deserves more than she’s getting from you. She’s a first-class journalist. Think about that.” He hung up and nodded at Brannigan.
“What now?” she asked, her expression puzzled by his last remark.
“Where’s Pine?”
“Taking pictures and helping out.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested.
She picked up her things from the long communal table that the press crew was using as desk space and followed Chapin outside.
They walked down the block, and when Chapin felt safe enough, he said, “Blacky’s looking for a flight for me. I have to get out, quickly.”
“What did you find in the mountains?” Brannigan asked, her voice going tight.
“Brannigan, I can’t—”
&nbs
p; She stopped walking and faced him. Her eyes met his openly. “In Canada, you told me, in so many words, that I had to earn your trust. I think I’ve done that. Since we’ve been together, you’ve given me bits and pieces of what’s going on. I think I deserve the whole story, no matter what it is.”
Chapin looked away from her to the damaged street, his mind as hollow as the remnants of the fallen buildings. Then he turned back to Brannigan. She was right; she had earned his trust.
Making up his mind, and starting them walking again, Chapin said, “When I was in the Pamirs, I learned exactly what Sokova’s plan is, why Blair was killed, and the reason I’m listed as a traitor.” He told her, in complete detail, what he’d found inside the Pamir installation.
When he finished, belief shaded Brannigan’s features. Although his words carried the sound of insanity, she had not doubted him.
“What will you do?”
“Get back and warn Mathews, talk to Hirshorne, and find out how Mathews’ brother could have survived.”
“Do you think Hirshorne is Sokova?”
He considered his own thoughts about Hirshorne. “It makes sense, but it’s too convenient. The man has accomplished so much in his life, and for the country. No, I don’t think he’s the mole. I think he made a mistake in nineteen forty-seven, when he shot down that plane. Either the plane wasn’t carrying Mathews’ brother and the man who’d kidnapped the baby, or they didn’t die in the crash. Sokova, and the Soviets, used that one mistake.”x
“Then you aren’t any closer to knowing who the mole is, are you?”
He stared at her. “I’m closer, much closer. Whoever the mole is, knows Mathews intimately and has known Mathews since boyhood. How else could he have predicted that Mathews would become a candidate one day. In fact, the mole was most likely able to observe Mathews as a boy, and counsel and guide him along the path Sokova wanted him to follow.”
“And the name of that person is what Hirshorne will be able to tell me, for there can’t be many people who have been in Mathews’ life for that long a period—possibly a teacher at his school, the Ditman Academy.”
Brannigan nodded, remembering her research on Mathews. “Of course. He went there from elementary school through high school graduation. Someone there would have had access to him for all those years.” Then her expression changed, and her features reflected concern. “Do you think they know you were inside the installation?”
