“Space aliens like in Star Wars?” one of the Cub Scouts asked. “Cool!”
Captain Weikman grinned. “Just like Star Wars.” He shared the joke with the rest of the audience, most of whom, Kinsey noticed, didn’t get it. Or at least didn’t appreciate it.
“We also track leftover space junk, such as obsolete satellites or even tools the astronauts might have lost during space walks. We wouldn’t want one of those to come streaking through the atmosphere and have the Russians or the Chinese mistake it for a missile. And of course you all know that every year we track the progress of Santa Claus from the North Pole.”
The adults grinned. The Cub Scouts groaned, clearly disappointed that the captain thought they still believed in Santa Claus.
“Now, unlike what you might have seen in the movies, we can’t actually launch a nuclear attack from CMOC—”
“Then it’s not really aerospace defense, is it?” one of the older men challenged. “Why’d you call it that?”
Unfazed, Weikman nodded. “Excellent point, sir. When Cheyenne Mountain was first established, back in the sixties, we actually did have an active role in—”
Kinsey sighed and closed his eyes. There was nothing here he couldn’t find in some concentrated Web-surfing. Weikman wrapped up the briefing with a quick question-and-answer period, mostly about what it was like to work in the Mountain. The captain was suitably vague about the number of people involved, and Kinsey could hear a snort of derision from his escort. However many there were, some were Canadians and many lived in Fort Carson, the base at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain. How utterly fascinating, Kinsey thought.
Once the captain was finished, the uniformed escort stepped forward again, moving the tourists along in a not-too-subtle fashion back to their tour bus. One stopped in front of Kinsey and Samuels. An indecipherable, wordless exchange between the two military men resulted in the enlisted man moving on, leaving the other two alone in the room.
Moments later they were rejoined by Weikman. “Well, gentlemen, I understand that you’re supposed to get the full Cook’s Tour.”
“The what?” Samuels said.
Weikman smiled again, and Kinsey smiled back. Part of it, of course, was sharing the joke that Samuels didn’t get; the rest was just responding to the other man’s expression. When people smiled, you smiled back. A politician’s son learned that sort of thing early. “Just an expression,” Kinsey informed Samuels.
Samuels looked skeptical.
“If you’ll come this way, I’ll take you to the Mountain,” Weikman said, and led them out of the Visitors Center to a navy-blue van.
Minutes later, they approached the final checkpoint outside the plain upside-down U that was the entrance to the complex. He verified one more time that he had no recording devices of any kind on his person, no cell phone, no PDA, no camera. He signed off on a form attesting to the fact that he would have to rely solely on his own mortal memory, and fingerprinted it. Then they were back in the van, on the road that led straight to the hole in the mountain, and Weikman kept on going, straight inside, into the dark.
It was dark, of course, only by contrast to the brilliant fall sunshine outside. The walls of the tunnel were smooth and well lighted, but Kinsey couldn’t avoid a shudder of claustrophobia, and he found himself breathing more deeply, as if somehow oxygen was consumed by the bones of the mountain around them. Two flatbed trucks loaded with heavy equipment passed them, headed for the outside world. The rumble of the engines echoed long after they were gone.
The sedan traveled perhaps a mile before pulling into a large cavern, the roof vanishing above a network of catwalks and lights. The three men got out, and Kinsey squinted upward, trying to estimate how high the cavern stretched; the lights looked like stars. All around him, people and vehicles moved with purpose and focus. Because of the size of the cavern, even the level of activity around them didn’t make the room seem crowded.
Weikman led them to a large office and presented them to “the Joint Command of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, General Pace and Brigadier Cassidy.” They exchanged pleasantries, and the commanders offered him scones and coffee.
“You’ll receive our full unclassified briefing booklet before you leave,” Pace assured him.
Kinsey smiled politely and thanked him. Bored or not, he was thinking about the story, trying on different angles. He needed a hook, and so far he hadn’t seen anything attention-grabbing that would compel a reader to follow along.
“I can handle the tour from here,” Samuels told Weikman once they were out of the commander’s office.
The captain was in the unpleasant position of attempting to contradict a superior officer who was not by any means in his chain of command? Not that it would be any easier if Samuels were in his chain of command, Kinsey thought, grateful that he was a civilian.
Having pushed the issue as far as he dared, Weikman stepped aside, and Samuels turned to gesture to Kinsey. The reporter noted with amusement that Weikman was already picking up a telephone, reporting no doubt to someone else that a lieutenant colonel was running around loose with a civilian reporter in tow.
But, somewhat to his surprise, Samuels followed the expected protocol. He wasn’t allowed to enter any of the control rooms until Samuels notified the occupants that he had an uncleared civilian with him. The radar screens and computer displays were curiously blank. The officers were polite and pleasant and not too obvious about wishing he would go away and let them get back to work.
So he was polite and pleasant back, and asked intelligent questions and found out absolutely nothing new at all.
After the third or fourth such visit, as they headed for yet another intersection of tunnels, Kinsey caught at Samuels’ arm.
“All right,” he said at last, “what is this all about? It’s all fascinating, I’m sure, and if I were writing a history of this place I’d be just thrilled, but really, Samuels, who cares? Today’s hot stories are not tucked away in the systems of a facility that’s been around for more than thirty years.”
Samuels glanced farther down the corridor, to an elevator guarded by yet another armed guard sitting at a desk, and then smiled at him. “You just have no idea what’s in this mountain,” he said.
“And I suppose you’re going to break security and tell me all about it?” Skepticism dripped from every word.
“I would never break security,” Samuels said with a show of indignation. “You don’t have to be insulting.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Maybe your father hoped that you’d see something that piqued your interest.” Samuels took a couple of steps farther down the corridor and lowered his voice. Kinsey had to follow in order to hear him.
The jerk was leading him, Kinsey realized. Coaxing him down the hallway toward something Samuels wanted him to see. Something that Samuels couldn’t mention directly—because it was classified.
Of all the incredibly stupid situations to be in, Kinsey thought, and how completely typical of his father to set him up this way.
“Naturally, you wouldn’t betray anything secret,” he jibed. “Even though the public has a right to know.”
A shadow crossed Samuels’ eyes, as if he were momentarily indecisive. “Classified material doesn’t fall into that category,” he answered after a pause that was a moment too long. “That’s just Need to Know.”
“Oh, screw it.” Kinsey pushed past Samuels, past the airman seated at the desk, to the elevator door, and pushed the button.
The guard was already getting to his feet, un-snapping his holster, as Samuels, pursued by second thoughts, moved between them. The airman opened his mouth to protest.
The elevator door opened.
The next thing Frank Kinsey knew, the muzzle of a gun was in his ear, someone’s arm was around his throat, and he had been pulled into the elevator. The last glimpse he had of Bert Samuels was of the man’s shocked face—his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish—through the rapidly clo
sing elevator doors.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Hey!” As a response to the occasion, it lacked something. Kinsey decided not to get picky. He could always edit the story later, assuming he had the chance. At least now he had his hook. “Hey, I didn’t mean to…”
The alarms had already started as the elevator doors were sliding shut—he had to give somebody credit for fast response. By contrast, it was very quiet in the elevator itself. He was surprised that power hadn’t been cut off, but the little room continued its smooth descent. “Look, I don’t want any problems.” His mouth was very dry.
“Shut up,” the voice behind him said. The arm across his Adam’s apple jerked, and Kinsey reached up involuntarily to try to pull it away. The muzzle of the gun nudged warningly at his earlobe. He could hear the harsh rasp of his captor’s breathing, smell the tang of beer on his breath. “Just shut up. You’re that reporter they’re all worried about, aren’t you?”
The elevator was still dropping. Kinsey found himself watching the indicator lights, amazed at the number of floors that seemed to be going by. He’d had no idea there was such a deep hole in Cheyenne Mountain.
Meanwhile, several stories above them, Samuels was screaming orders to contact Blue Book, and most of the staff around them, including the airman on guard, were looking at him blankly. Major Weikman, who had been nearby, faded back to pick up a telephone, muttering rapidly to personnel on the other end.
In the elevator, his captor’s arm jerked again, demanding the attention it already had. “Aren’t you? You were the only one out there in civvies. Being escorted. Touring.”
Given the choice between following the order to shut up and answering the question, Kinsey opted for the latter, but kept it brief. “Yes, I am.” Worried? Nobody so far had seemed particularly worried about anything, at least not until now. He was willing to make up for the lack all by himself.
“Did that article in NewsWorld last month about secrets and the public, right?”
“That was mine.” Normally he’d have been very pleased that someone actually remembered his work, recognized his byline. Somehow that reaction didn’t seem appropriate now.
“Well, I’ll give you secrets,” the voice said. “People dying. People getting murdered. We’re all gonna die and they aren’t gonna tell anybody. I was there. I know.”
Despite being dry-mouthed with fear, Kinsey couldn’t help feeling a flicker of interest.
“Where?” he said.
His captor unwrapped the arm from around Kinsey’s neck and shoved the reporter against the far wall of the elevator. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Sure I would,” Kinsey gasped, trying to keep from sliding down the wall. The man in front of him was wearing rumpled fatigues, the gold leaves that indicated he was a major, and U.S. insignia. He was also waving around a standard U.S. issue sidearm, but at least it wasn’t pointed into Kinsey’s ear anymore.
“They said you’d be coming today,” the major muttered. There were flecks of spittle around his lips, and his gaze danced from the indicator lights to the walls of the elevator and back again. “They said. Kinsey. Reporter. You’d be interested in the aliens, wouldn’t you? You’d tell them. Somebody has to tell them. We’re all gonna die.”
Oh, hell. Not aliens. Why’d it have to be aliens? Frank Kinsey made a mental note to write a really scathing expose of security at domestic military bases, just as soon as he got home. “What aliens?” Keep him talking. Get him interested. I’ll bet they’ll be waiting to jump him just as soon as those doors open again.
“The Goa’uld. They send us through the Gate to find the Goa’uld, but it wasn’t them. They’re gonna kill us all. We need to tell somebody. Tell the President.” For a moment the blue eyes ceased their darting, and the major was looking right at him, confusion uppermost. His gun hand had fallen to his side.
“Who are the Goa’uld? And what’s your name?”
“Morley, David, Major, United States Air Force, 993-47-6296.” The words came out staccato, as if the man didn’t even have to think about them. And of course he didn’t: Name. Rank. Serial number.
“Dave Morley? Can I call you Dave?”
The major licked his lips, nodded.
The elevator jolted to a stop, and the gun came up again, pointed unwaveringly at Kinsey.
They were waiting, all right. Six armed personnel, eerily silent, standing in a semicircle around the elevator door, automatic rifles aimed and ready. Kinsey hadn’t had this much firepower aimed at him since his last trip to Serbia. He hadn’t liked it much then, either, and it had been a lot less personal the last time.
“Get back,” Morley said. “Get back or I blow him away. That’s an order, dammit.”
“They’re not taking orders from you right now, Dave,” said a calm, unruffled voice from behind the firing squad. “Why don’t you just put that down and we can talk about this.”
Kinsey desperately wanted to turn his head and find out who was being so damn cool about this situation, but he was afraid that if he did, he’d miss the exciting picture of Morley firing at him.
“Get back,” Morley repeated. “Order them back, O’Neill.”
“You know I can’t do that,” the voice went on reasonably. “Come on, Major, this is a standoff. Put the weapon down.”
“Like hell I will.” Morley’s other hand went to his belt, pulled something free, and brought it to his mouth. “You get back, or I’ll blow us all to Kingdom Come.” Kinsey could feel the release, but the sensation of the gun in his ear kept him from dashing to safety. That, and the fact that his knees were about to give out on him entirely.
The reasonable voice sighed. “But Dave, that’s such a cliché.”
Morley rotated his hand to display its contents.
Sure enough, it was a grenade, and the pin was out.
“Back off, people.” The voice was reluctant, and just a little less cool than it had been.
“You snipe me off,” Morley said, “and the senator’s little boy goes with me.”
“Would I do a thing like that, Dave?”
“In a heartbeat, O’Neill.” Morley stepped forward and grabbed Kinsey’s shoulder, shoving him around to face the squad. Kinsey’s relief at seeing their weapons lowered was tempered by Morley’s arm once again around his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the grenade.
At least now he could also see the owner of the quiet voice, a tall, lean colonel also dressed in fatigues, standing opposite the elevator as if preparing for a High Noon confrontation. Behind him, two women, one in a white lab coat and the other a pretty blonde in fatigues, joined a younger man dressed in civilian clothes and a massive specimen with some kind of strange symbol on his forehead. What kind of tattoo is that? Who’s the doctor? he wondered, his mind scrambling desperately for something to think about other than the armed grenade. Morley must have holstered the gun. That part was good, anyway.
“Come on,” the major muttered in his ear.
“Where’re you going?” the colonel—O’Neill, Morley had called him—asked pleasantly, as if they were just discussing the weather and plans for the day. The look in his eyes, though, was anything but pleasant. It was hard and angry, and a fresh shudder of terror went through Kinsey at the realization that he was trapped, not just by a crazy man who had gone off the deep end and was waving a live grenade around, but between the crazy and another man who might not be crazy himself but was coldly determined to stop the crazy. Kinsey himself was nothing more than a really annoying obstacle, and O’Neill didn’t look like he had much sympathy for obstacles.
I’m a hostage, for God’s sake!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a hostage. You’re in the way.
Morley forced him down the hall, past the squad and the pleasantly glowering colonel, toward yet another door, and then through that into a large room.
A very large room. It soared at least a couple of stories, and there were assorted desks and consoles currently being o
ccupied by staff who slowly realized they’d been invaded. The ripple of information passed from the back of the room to the front, lapping against a metal ramp leading up to a huge round stone circle set on end. He could see the opposite wall through the circle—no, it was a pair of circles, one inside the other. The opening they surrounded was perhaps twice the height of a man.
For an instant Kinsey actually forgot about the grenade. He was definitely in a place where he wasn’t supposed to be, seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see, and his reporter’s instincts were wild to know more, to find out and tell. What was this place? What was that thing? What were all these people doing down here? This had definitely not been covered in the NORAD briefing.
He was reminded abruptly as Morley yanked him to one of the consoles. The screen saver showed a series of large squares with cryptic symbols. Kinsey looked from the screen saver to the monument at the top of the ramp and noted several similarities in the carved markings.
He was amazed at his own ability to notice such details at a time like this. But he’d always been that way. Displacement activity, an old girlfriend had informed him once. Rather than think about the threat of the here and now, he noticed stupid details, remembered stupid trivia. She’d been going for a Ph.D. in psychology and had a comma-shaped red mole on her left hip.
O’Neill walked up to stand within arm’s length of the major and his hostage. Morley yanked Kinsey around in front of himself as a shield, displaying the grenade as he did so.
“Dave, come on.” O’Neill’s voice was quiet, reasonable. Not coaxing. Morley would have responded badly to that, Kinsey thought. Coaxing would have sounded too condescending. “Give me the grenade. Let’s not do something here that everybody’s gonna be sorry for.
“Especially,” he added, casting a wry glance at the armed weapon, “me.”
“People have to know,” Morley said. Kinsey could feel the major relaxing just a little as he lowered his voice to speak directly to O’Neill. “They have a right to know. I’m gonna show them. I’m gonna show him”—he jerked his arm around Kinsey’s throat—“and he’ll tell. That’s what he came for, isn’t it? So people would know?”
[Stargate SG-1 03] - The First Amendment Page 8
