Finally we come to a room that looks like some kind of suite—though based on the furniture and the avocado-colored carpet, it looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since I was a kid. Briggs finds a touch screen keypad on the wall behind a small painting of the White House. It’s the only thing that looks new in the room. He enters some code and lowers his head to stare into the pad, which must have some sort of retina sensor. The wall beside him shifts, and a series of thick steel slabs slide away, revealing a small room with a grated metal floor.
He waves me through, finally letting out a long breath as the wall slides back into place behind us. Then he flips a switch and the floor starts to move.
We’re on an elevator.
“Thank God,” he says, leaning against the wall, finally grimacing and acting like a man who’s been injured.
“This is insane,” I whisper. I can’t figure out how many flights of stairs we’ve gone down, but it seems like we’re definitely farther underground than any normal train station would be.
“There’ve been hidden tunnels and safe rooms in this building since the Truman administration. When the Cold War really started to escalate, all sorts of secret entrances and exits were added. And . . . well, let’s just say the architects got creative.”
We finally come to a stop at a small landing. There’s one door that has a sign that says “Employees Only” on it.
“That should be an unused janitor’s closet,” he says, pointing at the door. “Which means . . .”
He heads to a blank wall and starts pressing on bricks at random, muttering to himself. Finally, one of them pushes in, and a portion of the wall slides away.
He turns to me and grins.
“What’d I say? You’d be surprised what kinds of gonzo shit the government designed in the ’60s and ’70s. It’s like they were taking their cues from James Bond movies.”
The panel closes behind us as we step into what looks like a museum of old train cars—ten or so of them parked side by side in a tight row in front of us.
“What is this place?” I whisper to myself as I look around. There seems to be no other entrance or exit.
“Union Station’s top secret transport hub.” He waves at one of the cameras on the wall and then limps forward. “Good. Looks like they sent back our car. We won’t have to wait for it.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask. Even if he is a major, this seems like it should be far above his pay grade.
“There’s a small team of soldiers stationed out of a secret base here in the city. Our primary concern is the safe evacuation of assets and high-profile targets in the event of an emergency.”
He keys in a code on the side of one of the trains and a door opens. The inside is roughly as big as a single subway car but furnished like a private jet: all plush and leather.
“Incredible,” I murmur as Gamera lands on a bench and takes the form of a snapping turtle.
“You haven’t seen anything. Watch this.”
Briggs walks to the front of the car and flips a series of switches. The train shakes, and suddenly we’re sinking into the cement, until the entire car is several yards below the floor. A set of lights goes on, and I can see a track disappearing into a dark tunnel ahead of us.
“We’ll be there in an hour. Why don’t you get some sleep if you can.”
The train car starts to shoot forward, taking me off balance a little. I catch myself on the side of a seat before sinking into it.
It’s as if just by sitting down, my body gives up, ready to pass out.
While Briggs busies himself at the front of the car, I pull out my satellite phone. Whatever Adam did to it must have worked, because I get a signal.
But Sam doesn’t answer.
Please be safe, wherever you are.
Before I can start worrying or hypothesizing what my son might be doing, a dark, dreamless sleep settles on me, and the rest of the world fades away to nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“MALCOLM!”
I shoot up in my seat as I wake to the sound of my name, gasping back into consciousness.
“Finally,” Briggs says. “I’ve been yelling at you for a full minute. I thought I was going to have to slap you again.”
He’s on the bench across from me, injured leg outstretched. The bandage is starting to ooze blood around the edges. My eyes scan the train car until I find Gamera, still in turtle form, snoring on the floor by my feet.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Almost to the bunker. I figured you’d want a few minutes to wake up.”
I nod, rubbing my eyes. They sting, and I realize I’m probably on the way to being dehydrated if I’m not already. I look at my phone. Still nothing. I’ve slept less than an hour.
“We’re still underground?”
“This whole system is underground,” Briggs says. “It’s a secret, remember?”
“Fascinating,” I say, still trying to wrap my head around things. Since being freed from the Mogs, waking up has been a process of slowly remembering where I am and what I’m doing—especially if I find myself in a strange place. “I have so many questions I don’t know where to begin.”
“You’ve got questions?” He points to Gamera. “That’s a shape-shifting alien pet. This is the craziest shit I’ve ever seen. Well . . . maybe it would have been a week ago. Before everything else.”
Gamera stares at his finger curiously.
“Looks like he’s hungry,” Briggs says.
“He won’t bite,” I say. “At least, I don’t think he will. His name’s Gamera. That was my idea. He . . . always seemed fond of my son.”
Briggs mutters something I can’t make out.
“When we get to wherever we’re going, I’d appreciate you not mentioning him to the others. It’s not that I don’t trust whoever’s there . . . it’s just that I’m afraid—”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re right to be cautious. Everyone’s on edge. We’re all still trying to figure out who’s in bed with the Mogadorians and who’s not. It’s a select group being collected at the bunker, though. Still . . . I mean, aliens are real, so I don’t know what to expect anymore.”
I have to focus. Names float through my mind—the men and women we know of who are MogPro agents.
“Will the vice president be at the bunker?” I ask. He’s the highest official I can think of who’s sold his soul to the Mogadorians.
“No. From what I understand he’s AWOL. Disappeared along with his entire security detail right after everything happened at the UN. They may have tracked him down by now, but it’s standard procedure to keep the president and VP in different locations in a situation like this. You know, so they don’t get taken out at the same time if something goes wrong.”
“Ah,” I say. “That’s good.”
“You don’t think . . .” He doesn’t finish the question. Just lets it linger in the air. It’s obvious what’s on his mind, though.
“The Feds think he’s working with the Mogs.” This was one of the first things Walker told us when she showed up at Ashwood. Was that really just yesterday?
“Jesus.” Briggs shifts his focus and looks me straight in the eyes. His gaze is piercing. “Just . . . Jesus. Do we even stand a chance?” he asks.
“I have to believe we do,” I say.
Briggs seems comforted by this. The muscles in his face relax a little.
“I won’t mention Gamera,” he says.
“You know, you never told me your name.”
“Major Briggs.”
“I meant your first name.”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “Yeah. You get used to everyone using your last name, I guess. It’s Samuel.”
Sam.
Of course it is. I smile, even as my worry for Sam pounds against the inside of my chest.
“That’s my son’s name.”
“He wasn’t back at Ashwood, was he?”
“No. He’d left already. Headed to New York to try an
d stop the Mogadorians. He’s been fighting against them for months now, trying to keep all this from happening. Working alongside the Garde. The good aliens.”
Briggs nods but doesn’t say anything for a minute or two. When he does talk, his voice has a softer tone to it than I’ve heard since he showed up to whisk me off to a secret bunker.
“My mom’s the only one I have left. She lives in the Bronx, but she . . . she works in the city. I haven’t been able to reach her.” There’s a spark of something painful on his face and then it’s gone. He’s back to the stony expression that seems to be his natural state.
I hold out my phone. “Here,” I say.
“No signal underground.”
“I’ve got one.”
He looks at me curiously and then takes the phone. “How is that possible?” he asks.
“It’s a long story.”
I watch him dial, carefully, his fingers hesitating over each button. He holds the phone up to his ear for a long time before finally handing it back to me, shaking his head.
“I’m sure she’s all right,” I say, knowing full well what a useless assurance this is.
The train starts to slow. Briggs gets to his feet. “She’s a tough old broad. I’m sure she’s fine. Say, can I get my gun back? They’re kind of particular about who has weapons down here.”
I hand the pistol over. He limps a bit as he positions himself in front of the car’s sliding door. The brakes screech, and we come to a final stop. He stretches, gritting his teeth as he puts weight on his injured leg.
“I hope they’ve got a solid med staff here. And hot water.”
Gamera shrinks down to an insect again and hops on my shoulder as I stand beside Briggs.
“And coffee,” I say. “Wait, is this your first time here?”
“In person, yeah. But I know the schematics like the back of my hand, so I pretty much know what to expect.”
The door slides open, and the first thing I see are five guys in dark suits all pointing machine guns at my face.
Briggs doesn’t flinch at the sight of the weapons. I, on the other hand, jump and raise my hands in the air.
“Major Samuel Briggs,” a man in black says as he steps forward. Briggs nods. The man holds some kind of small electronic device up to Briggs’s eyes and then has him place his fingers on an electronic tablet. He must pass whatever this test is, because the man motions for Briggs to come out of the train car.
“This is the asset, Malcolm Goode,” Briggs says as he steps between the men. None of them turns his gun off me. “He’s cleared. I’ve disarmed him.”
Despite this, one of the suited men steps forward and pats me down. He holds my satellite phone out to the guy who seems to be in charge, but he just shakes his head.
“Won’t do him any good so far underground and with all our shielding,” he says, and my heart sinks. He continues. “Hand.”
I reach out, obliged to follow any orders at this point, and he guides my palm to the tablet. An old picture of me pops up on the screen—one I know they used in “missing” posters when I disappeared—along with some sort of record full of my information. The man pulls the tablet away before I can actually read anything.
“Welcome to Liberty Base,” he says. “I’m Deputy Chief Richards with the Secret Service. Follow me.”
“Wait. How do you have my fingerprints?” I ask, pocketing the phone the other man gives back to me and silently thanking the entire universe that the guy didn’t check for a signal on it. “What information just got pulled up?”
The man lets out a short laugh and doesn’t bother to answer the questions. Instead he turns away and starts walking towards a door on the other end of the room, which is nothing but a big concrete box. It’s only then that I notice a man in a lab coat hovering over a control panel in one corner.
“Keep the train here,” Richards says to him as we pass by. “This is the last of our guests from Union Station.”
He leads us into a narrow hallway. The walls and floors are all slate gray. Our footsteps echo through the corridor. Briggs following behind me, with the gunmen bringing up the rear.
“You’re injured, Major,” Richards says without looking back. I wonder if he noticed the bandage earlier or if he can just tell from the uneven sound of Briggs’s footsteps. “We’ll wake the medical staff.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“You’re at a secret underground bunker. That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you right now.”
He turns. Another hallway. How much time have I spent navigating underground labyrinths in the last few days? This “Liberty Base” is beginning to remind me of the sublevel of Ashwood, and it’s not exactly a comforting feeling.
“I was told the president sent for me. When will I be meeting with him? There’s a lot to discuss about the Mogadorians and who in the government—”
“It’s almost four in the morning. Everyone’s taking a two-hour break before regrouping. When you’re needed, someone will collect you.”
He stops in front of a door and swings it open. Inside is a small room with a desk and a bed covered in a blanket. A minifridge and cabinet sit between two slim doors. It’s slightly nicer than I’d expect a dorm room or cheap motel to be.
“You’ll find fresh clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom. There’s some food and water as well.”
“You brought me all the way here to put me in a room and—,” I start.
“You’ll have to forgive us for not having a gift basket and suite waiting for you, but we’re in a state of emergency, Dr. Goode. I advise you to stay in here until you’re called for. Don’t roam about the halls. I’ll keep a man posted outside your door . . . in case you need anything.”
“Wait,” I say, suddenly feeling like more of a prisoner than someone here to help the president. “You won’t tell me where I am, and I’m not supposed to leave my room? What’s going on here?”
Richards gets a slight smirk on his face.
“If you want to leave, Doctor, you can. I’ll just have a few of my men escort you to the surface and see to it that you aren’t able to find this place ever again.”
I glance at Briggs, who nods to me in a way I think is supposed to be reassuring. Then I sigh and walk into the room.
“Someone will send for you later,” Richards continues. “Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day.”
Then the door is shut and I’m left alone. I half expect him to lock me in before leaving, but he doesn’t. At least, not that I hear.
I wash my face in the tiny bathroom once I realize that the combination of grime and several days’ worth of stubble have me looking like a vagrant. It’s only when the water in the sink turns pink that I realize I’ve got splotches of blood on my hands. From bandaging Briggs or checking on Lujan. Maybe it’s even my own—there’s a cut on the side of my head and dried blood in my hair. I take out my phone. Whatever Adam did to it, he’s a genius: I’m getting a signal, despite what Richards said. I’m about to walk back into the main room and dial my son when I stop, glancing around. Given how secretive everyone’s being, I’m sure I’m not supposed to have contact with the outside world, and this place is probably bugged. I can’t lose my phone, so I stay in the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the faucet and shower, trying to hide my voice as much as I can.
I try Sam, but there’s no answer. Again. I beat my fist against the sink, causing the mirror in front of me to shake.
I dial another number. This time someone picks up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Malcolm,” I say. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I don’t sleep much,” Noto says.
“Glad to hear you made it out of that mess.”
“Likewise. We have a few injured men, but they’ll live. It’ll take more than the small scouting party they sent to wipe us out. But the Mogs will be back.”
“Probably,” I say. “Though I’m not sure Ashwood is high on their priority
list right now.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re packing up everything we can from the archives and heading to a safe house. Orders from high up. The brass thinks Ashwood is too hot right now. I have to say, I agree.” He pauses. When he starts talking again, he’s a little quieter. “We haven’t heard from Walker, but now that the Mogs know we’re here, we can’t sit around waiting for another attack. Don’t worry. We’re, uh, trying to take the guard birds with us. Where are you? Are you safe?”
I glance around at the sterile bathroom walls. Steam from the shower is starting to fill the room. I’m suddenly feeling claustrophobic
“You know,” I say quietly, “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER NINE
SOMEONE KNOCKS LOUDLY ON THE DOOR, WAKING me up. I stumble out of bed, where I’d fallen asleep in all my clothes, on top of the blankets. My mind is hazy, and a glance at my watch tells me I’ve only been in the room for a couple of hours.
Richards is on the other side of the door. He gives me a once-over.
“You’ve got five minutes to pull yourself together,” he says. “You’ve been summoned to the war room.”
“Summoned?” I ask, trying to focus and make sense of this. I look at my rumpled clothes. I’m not sure when the last time I showered was. If anyone’s going to take me seriously, I might need to make myself a little more presentable.
“Five minutes,” he repeats.
I close the door and find a white button-down shirt in the closet that’s a little too big and tuck it into my pants, then brush my teeth, clean my glasses, and try to pat down my hair, which is springing out in every direction. I’m just getting my shoes on when there’s another knock at the door. Gamera buzzes in the air beside me, but I shake my head, holding a hand up to him. He’s saved my life already, and I don’t want to risk him being exposed in front of whoever it is I’m meeting. Eventually someone’s sure to notice that I’ve always got a bug crawling on me.
In the hallway, Richards hands me a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“It’s black,” he says.
“That’s how I take it.”
“Good man.”
[Lorien Legacies 06.2] The Lost Files: Last Defense Page 5