“Right. We get one or two a year.”
Paul Stevens tried a joke and said, “Only the deer get shot on sight.”
Mr. Stevens got serious and explained, “It’s not a dangerous breach of security or biocontainment if people stray onto the island. As I said, I don’t mean to give the impression that the island is contaminated. This bus is not a bio-containment vehicle, for instance. But because of the proximity of the biocontainment areas, we would rather keep the island free of unauthorized people and all animals.”
I couldn’t help but point out, “From what I can see, Mr. Stevens, a boatload of even semi-competent terrorists could land on the island some night, knock off your handful of guards, and grab all kinds of scary things from the labs or blow the place sky-high, releasing deadly bugs into the environment. In fact, when the bay freezes over, they don’t even need a boat—you’re connected to the mainland.”
Mr. Stevens replied, “I can only tell you that there’s more security here than meets the eye.”
“I hope so.”
“Count on it.” He looked at me and said, “Why don’t you try it one night?”
I love a challenge and replied, “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I can get into your office, steal your high school equivalency diploma from the wall, and have it hanging in my office the next morning.”
Mr. Stevens kept staring at me, his dead waxy face immobile. Creepy.
I said to him, “Let me ask you the question we’re all here to have answered—Could Tom and Judy Gordon have smuggled micro-organisms off this island? Tell us the truth.”
Paul Stevens replied, “Theoretically, they could have.”
No one in the bus spoke, but I noticed that the driver turned his head and did a double take.
Mr. Stevens asked, “But why would they?”
“Money,” I replied.
“They really didn’t seem the type,” said Mr. Stevens. “They liked animals. Why would they want to wipe out the world’s animals?”
“Maybe they wanted to wipe out the world’s people so that the animals could have a happy life.”
“Ridiculous,” said Stevens. “The Gordons took nothing from here that would hurt any living thing. I’ll bet my job on that.”
“You already have. And your life.”
I noticed that Ted Nash and George Foster were mostly quiet, and I knew they’d been briefed much earlier, and they were probably afraid they’d sound sort of like, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”
Mr. Stevens turned his attention back to the windshield and said, “We’re approaching Fort Terry. We can get out here and look around.”
The bus stopped, and we all got out.
CHAPTER 9
It was a nice morning, and the sun was warmer here in the middle of the island. Paul Stevens led us around the fort. Fort Terry had no walls, and actually resembled a deserted town. It was unexpectedly picturesque with a brick jailhouse, an old mess hall, a rambling, two-story brick barracks with a veranda, the commandant’s house, a few other turn-of-the-century buildings, and a white clapboard chapel on a hill.
Mr. Stevens pointed to another brick building and said, “That’s the only building still used—the firehouse.”
Max commented, “This is a long distance to the lab.”
“Yes,” Stevens replied, “but the new laboratory is virtually fireproof and has its own internal fire-fighting system.” He added, “These fire trucks are used mostly for brush fires and fires in buildings without biocontainment.”
Max, who’d lived his whole life upwind or downwind from this island, said to Stevens, “But a fire or a hurricane could destroy the power generators that filter the biocontainment areas. Right?”
“Anything is possible.” He added, “Some people live near nuclear reactors. This is the modern world—full of unimaginable horrors—chemical, biological, and nuclear nightmares waiting to clean the slate for the next evolving species.”
I looked at Paul Stevens with new interest. It occurred to me that he was nuts.
In front of the barracks was a field of cut grass that swept down to the water some distance away. Flocks of Canada geese were strutting around the field, cackling and honking or whatever the hell they do when they’re not crapping. Stevens explained, “That was the parade ground. We keep the grass cut so that aircraft can see the concrete letters that are embedded in the grass. The letters say, ‘Plum Island— Restricted.’ We don’t want small planes landing here.” He made a little joke. “The sign keeps airborne terrorists away.”
We walked around a bit and Stevens said, “Before we built the main facility, a lot of the administration offices were housed here at Fort Terry. Now almost everything— labs, security, storage, administration, and animals—is under one roof, which is very good from the standpoint of security.” He said to me, “So, even if the perimeter security were breached, the main building is virtually unbreachable.”
“You’re really tempting me,” I said.
Mr. Stevens smiled again. I loved it when he smiled at me. He said, “For your information, I have a college degree from Michigan State, and it’s hanging on the wall behind my desk, but you’ll never see it.”
I smiled back. God, I love pissing people off who annoy me. I liked Max, I liked George Foster, I loved Beth, but I didn’t like Ted Nash or Paul Stevens. Liking three out of five people was really good for me—four out of six, if I counted myself. Anyway, I’m getting really intolerant of liars, fools, blowhards, and power freaks. I think I had more tolerance before I got shot. I have to ask Dom Fanelli.
The old parade ground ended abruptly in a steep drop to a rocky beach below, and we found ourselves standing at the edge overlooking the sea. It was a breathtaking view, but it highlighted the loneliness of this place, the otherworldly and end-of-the-world feeling associated with islands in general, and this island in particular. This must have been a very isolated duty station, an extremely boring outpost with little to do except watch the sea. Probably the artillerymen here would have welcomed the sight of an enemy armada.
Stevens said, “This beach is where the seals come every year in late autumn.”
I asked, “Do you shoot them?”
“Of course not. As long as they stay on the beach.”
As we walked back from the beach, Stevens drew our attention to a big boulder at the end of the parade ground. Sitting in a cleft of the boulder was a rusty cannonball. He said, “That’s from about the time of the Revolution— British or American. It’s one of the things the Gordons dug up.”
“Where did they find it?”
“Right around here, I guess. They dug a lot around the seal beach and this parade ground.”
“Did they?”
“They seemed to have a knack for knowing where to dig. They turned up enough musket balls to arm a regiment.”
“You don’t say?” Keep talking, Mr. Stevens.
“They used one of those metal detectors.”
“Good idea.”
“It’s an interesting hobby.”
“Indeed it is. My aunt was a big digger. I didn’t know the Gordons were into digging. I never saw anything they uncovered.”
“Well, they had to leave everything here.”
“Because of contamination?”
“No, because it’s federal land.”
This was interesting, and Nash and Foster were starting to listen, which is not what I wanted, so I changed the subject by saying to Stevens, “I think the bus driver is trying to get your attention.”
Stevens looked toward the bus, but the driver was just staring up at a flock of geese. Stevens glanced at his watch and said, “Well, let’s see the rest of the island, then we have an appointment with Dr. Zollner.”
We boarded the bus and off we went, heading east into the rising sun, out toward the spit of land that was the curved bone of the pork chop. The beach was magnificent, about two miles of unlittered, untrodden sand washed by the blue waters of the Long Island Sound.
No one spoke in the presence of this majestic display of nature. Not even me.
Stevens, still standing, glanced at me now and then, and I smiled at him. He smiled back. It was not a really fun kind of smile.
Finally, at the narrow end of the island, the bus stopped, and Mr. Stevens said, “This is as far as we can go with the bus. Now we walk.”
We all got out of the bus and found ourselves in the middle of an amazing old ruin. Wherever I looked, I saw massive concrete fortifications overgrown with vines and brush—pillboxes, bunkers, gun emplacements, ammunition magazines, tunnels, brick and concrete roadways, and huge, three-foot-thick walls with rusty iron doors in them.
Stevens said, “One of these underground passages leads to a secret laboratory where captured Nazi scientists are still working to develop the ultimate, indestructible virus that will wipe out the world’s population.”
He let that sink in a second or two, then continued, “In another underground laboratory is the preserved remains of four aliens that were recovered from the UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico.”
Again, there was a silence. Finally, I said, “Can we see the Nazi scientists first?”
Everyone laughed—sort of.
Mr. Stevens smiled his winning smile and said, “These are two of the absurd myths associated with Plum Island.” He added, “People report seeing strange-looking aircraft taking off and landing after midnight on the parade ground. They claim AIDS was originated here and also Lyme disease.” He looked around and said, “I guess these old fortifications with all the underground passages and rooms can play on some fertile imaginations. You’re welcome to look around. Go anywhere you please. If you find the aliens, let me know.” He smiled again. He had a really weird smile, and I thought maybe he was an alien. Mr. Stevens said, “But, of course, we all have to stay together. I need everyone in my sight at all times.”
This didn’t quite square with, “Go anywhere you please,” but it was close enough. So, John, Max, Beth, Ted, and George reverted to adolescence and had some fun climbing around the ruins, up staircases, over parapets and all that, with Mr. Stevens always close by. At one point we walked along a long brick roadway that sloped down to a pair of steel doors. The doors were ajar, and we all went inside. It was dark, cool, damp, and probably crawling with things.
Stevens followed us and said, “This leads into a huge ammunition magazine.” His voice echoed in the black void. “There was a narrow-gauge railroad on the island that carried the ammunition and gunpowder from the harbor to these underground storage areas. It’s a very complex and sophisticated system. But, as you can see, it’s entirely abandoned. There is nothing secret that goes on here.” He said, “If I had a flashlight, we could go further, and you’d see that no one lives, works, plays, or is interred in here.”
“Then where are the Nazis and the aliens?” I inquired.
“I moved them to the lighthouse,” replied Mr. Stevens.
I asked him, “But you can see our concern that the Gordons could have set up a clandestine lab in a place like this?”
Mr. Stevens replied, “As I said, I don’t suspect the Gordons of anything. But because this possibility was raised, I’m having my men search this entire complex. Also, there are about ninety aboveground abandoned military buildings all over the island. We have a lot of searching to do.”
I said, “Send your driver for a bunch of flashlights. I’d like to look around.”
There was a silence in the darkness, then Stevens said, “After you see Dr. Zollner, we can come back here and explore the underground rooms and passages if you wish.”
We walked back into the sunlight and Stevens said, “Follow me.”
We followed him and came onto a narrow road that led toward the eastern tip of Plum Island—the end of the curved bone. As we walked, Stevens said, “If you look around, you can see more gun emplacements. We once used these circular gun walls as animal pens, but now all animals are kept inside.”
Beth remarked, “That sounds cruel.”
Mr. Stevens replied, “It’s safer.”
Finally, we reached the easternmost tip of the island, a bluff rising maybe forty feet above a rock-strewn beach. Erosion had undermined a concrete bunker, and it lay in pieces down the face of the bluff and some of it had tumbled into the water.
It was a magnificent view, with the shoreline of Connecticut faintly visible to the left, and straight ahead a speck of land called Great Gull Island, about two miles away.
Stevens directed our attention to the south and said, “Do you see that rock pile there? That island was used for artillery and bombing practice. If you’re a boater, you know to stay away from there because of all the unexploded shells and bombs in the area. Past that rock pile is the north shore of Gardiners Island, which, as Chief Maxwell knows, is the private property of the Gardiner clan and is off-limits to the public. Beyond Great Gull is Fishers Island, which, like Plum, was frequented by pirates in the 1600s. So, from north to south we have Pirates’ Island, Plague Island, Perilous Island, and Private Island.” He smiled at his wit; appropriately it was a half smile.
Suddenly, we saw one of the patrol boats rounding the headland. The crew of three spotted us, and one of the men raised a pair of binoculars. Recognizing Paul Stevens, I suppose, the man waved, and Stevens waved back.
I looked down from the bluff at the beach below and noticed that the sand here had horizontal stripes of red, like a white layer cake with raspberry filling.
A voice called out behind us, and I saw the bus driver walking up the narrow road. Stevens said to us, “Stay here,” and went to meet the driver. The driver handed Stevens a cell phone. This is the part where the guide disappears, and we see the bus driving off, leaving Bond alone with the girl, but then frogmen come out of the water with submachine guns and open fire, then the helicopter—
“Detective Corey?”
I looked at Beth. “Yes?”
“What do you think so far?”
I noticed that Max, Nash, and Foster were climbing over and around the gun emplacements, and, macho men that they were, they were discussing artillery ranges, calibers, and guy stuff.
I was alone with Beth. I said, “I think you’re swell.”
“What do you think about Paul Stevens?”
“Nuts.”
“What do you think about what we’ve seen and heard so far?”
“Packaged tour. But now and then, I learn something.” She nodded, then asked, “What’s with this archaeological stuff? Did you know about that?”
“No.” I added, “I knew about the Peconic Historical Society, but not about the archaeological digs here. For that matter, the Gordons never once mentioned that they bought an acre of useless land overlooking the Sound.”
“What useless acre on the Sound?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I said, “There’s like all these little pieces, you know, and they sort of point to drug running, but maybe they don’t. There’s something else going on here…. Did you ever hear a ping in your head?”
“Not lately. Do you?”
“Yeah, sounds like a sonar ping.”
“Sounds like three-quarter disability.”
“No, it’s a sonar wave. The wave went out, it hit something, and it came back. Ping.”
“Next time you hear it, raise your hand.”
“Right. I’m supposed to be resting, and you’ve been upsetting me since I met you.”
“Likewise.” She changed the subject and said, “You know, the security here is not as good as I thought it would be, considering what’s on this island. If this was a nuclear facility, you’d see a lot more security.”
“Yeah. The barrier security sucks, but maybe the internal security in the lab is better. And maybe, as Stevens claims, there’s more here than meets the eye. Basically, though, I get the feeling that Tom and Judy could have waltzed out of here with whatever they wanted. I just hope they didn’t want anything.”
“Well, I think we’re going
to find out later today or maybe tomorrow that they did steal something, and we’re going to be told what it is.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” she replied.
“Tell me over dinner tonight.”
“I guess I have to get this over with.”
“It really won’t be that bad.”
“I have a sixth sense for bad dates.”
“I’m a good date. I’ve never pulled a gun on a date.”
“Chivalry is not dead.”
She turned and walked away. She stopped at the edge of the bluff and looked out over the water. The Sound was to the left and the Atlantic to the right and, as with the Gut on the other side of the island, the wind and currents mixed it up here. Gulls seemed to stand still in midair and whitecaps collided, causing the sea to churn. She looked good standing there in the wind, blue skies, white clouds, gulls, sea and sun, and all that. I pictured her naked in that same pose.
Mr. Stevens returned from his phone call and said, “We can get back on the bus now.”
We all walked along the road that skimmed the bluff. In a few minutes, we were back in the area of the ruined artillery fortifications.
I noticed that one of the steep rises on which the fortifications were built had recently eroded, exposing strata of fresh earth. The topmost stratum was organic compost, which is what you’d expect, and beneath that was white sand, which was also normal. But the next stratum was a reddish streak of what looked like rust, then more sand, then another line of rust red, just like on the beach. I said to Stevens, “Hey, nature calls. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t get lost,” said Mr. Stevens, not altogether joking.
I went around the base of the hill, picked up a piece of deadwood, and began jabbing it into the vertical surface of the grassy slope. The black compost and grass fell away, and I could see the strata of white and red. I took a handful of the reddish brown soil and saw that it was actually clay mixed with sand and maybe some iron oxide. It looked very much like the stuff in and on Tom and Judy’s running shoes. Interesting.
I put a handful of the soil in my pocket and turned around, only to see Stevens standing there watching me.
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