by Byron Craft
Ironwood had bought the Willys from Vice Admiral Hawkins. It had been the admiral’s labor of love. “Hawkins had become obsessed with the 1965 Mustang,” he said as he backed the car off the roof and onto Fulton Street. “He was fairly willing to part with the Jeepster when I came along and made him an offer.”
There was something else that was eccentric to Alan Ward. It was Ironwood’s attire. Thomas Ironwood had gotten rid of the jacket and necktie. He kept the western boots but was now wearing jeans and a denim long sleeve shirt that had been rolled up past the elbows revealing muscular forearms. The top of his head was protected from the Mojave sun by a western straw hat.
Alan had also been surprised that morning when his old friend suggested that they visit the Morley house. “I can understand your curiosity, but I would never get past the front gate. If you recall, I am no longer allowed on the base.”
“Also, it would take over an hour and a half to get to the Coso Range if we went that way,” Ironwood countered.
“Right, another reason we can’t go. Even if I did get in, Eastwater probably has everybody on alert for me, and I wouldn’t get very far.”
“Far enough, “Thomas said with a mischievous grin. “I know a shortcut.”
Five minutes later they were traveling west on Fulton Street. To Alan’s right was a red and white wood frame ranch house. It was one of the few houses in Darwin that was well maintained. An unusual windmill in front caught Alan’s attention. The propellers of the windmill were constructed from two fifty-five-gallon oil drums that had been cut in half lengthwise. They were mounted vertically at equal distances apart to an old automobile axle. The axle projected straight up out of the ground. Each half section of oil drum had been brightly painted in different colors and peppered with black and white polka dots. The pinwheel metal sculpture creaked as it slowly turned in the morning breeze. Alan was about to mentally correct himself for thinking of it as a bizarre lawn decoration and substitute the notion of yard art instead, realizing that no one had lawns in Darwin when the car made an abrupt turn to the left. A half a minute later, the Willys came to a halt. They had stopped in front of a chain link fence. A closed gate blocked their way from going any further. A sign fastened to the gate read “No Trespassing. Property of the U.S. Navy.” Within arm’s reach of Ironwood’s side of the car was a keyless entry system. The telephone style dial pad and mounting post looked incongruous with the surrounding area. In Darwin, he would have half expected a road-worn Clint Eastwood to ride into town before seeing it. The security system was out of place. It was at odds with the old western town. Come to think of it, he thought, so was the windmill and so was Ironwood with his crazy little car and his eccentric house. All of it was a costume incongruous to the surrounding area. Even though it was comprised of elements not properly belonging together, the disharmony seemed to be compatible. It was crazy, he knew, but somehow it all fit.
“On weekdays,” said Ironwood as he punched in a four-digit entry code, “this is the way I go to work. Instead of driving around the base into the main gate in Ridgecrest, I cut my travel time in half.” Moments after the last button was pushed the gate clanked and slowly rolled to the right.
Before Ironwood could let out the clutch Alan shouted “Wait, Ironwood, don’t do this on my behalf. You’ll get into a lot of trouble.”
“Trouble? Yes,” he said with a laugh. “A lot? No. I am classified a GS-15 civilian. What are they going to do? Demote me? Besides, my project is too important to them.”
Alan was about to take advantage of the opportunity and started to ask him once again what his project was about but Ironwood waved the question down with his right hand. At the same moment, the car lurched through the opened gate pressing Alan against the seat.
“Security patrols tend to concentrate on the parameter,” he said rapidly shifting into second. “They use SH-2 Sea Sprites, standard Navy helicopters to cover the area. The quicker we can get near the Coso Peaks, the easier it will be for us to elude them.”
Alan watched with admiration as Ironwood put the little car through its paces. After several minutes of traveling through a low sandy wash and then across the hard rocky ground, he decided that the modified Willys Overland could handle any terrain.
Off to his left, Alan spied a yellow and black sign that read, DANGER, TOXIC GAS. “What’s that all about,” he said raising his voice above the wind and motor noises.
“It’s an old mine shaft,” Ironwood hollered back. “It’s cautioning to be alert for carbon dioxide. Some of the magma from volcanic vents can open cracks in the earth, and especially with holes in the ground like this one, allowing large amounts of trapped CO2 gas to leak upward along fault lines.”
“Is it deadly?”
“Breathing air with more than thirty-percent CO2 can very quickly cause unconsciousness and death. Last year we had two navy personnel die of asphyxiation while digging a deep ditch for a storm sewer.”
Scattered occasionally amongst the thorny bushes and patches of scrub grass were other metal, signs rusted and vibrating in the wind advising against unauthorized entry. It wasn’t until they had reached Petroglyph Canyon that Alan breathed easily again. At least he was on familiar ground.
When they eventually left the Petroglyphs and started for Isaac Morley’s house, he realized that he owed his old friend a debt that he may never be able to repay. He felt deeply grateful to Ironwood for risking so much to bring him to the Petroglyphs and the Morley house. He had been to both locales twice before by way of field trips through the local museum. On both of those occasions, he had felt close to unlocking that part of his past that had been kept from him all these years. Only a little more time was all he needed. When his Maturango Museum pass into the NWC was taken away, he fell into deep mourning for that part of his life that he thought had been rendered impossible to reclaim. Now that hope had returned, and he had even found it possible to smile again.
As they approached the old house, the ground had flattened out, and the ride became smooth again. Alan leaned back in his seat and relaxed his sore muscles.
***
Ironwood turned off the car’s engine and put on the parking brake. They both stared at the crumbled remains of Isaac Morley’s front porch. The morning breeze had subsided, and the air was unnaturally quiet. “How old is the house?” Ironwood asked, realizing after he said that his voice had been almost a whisper.
“One hundred and thirty-seven years come next spring.”
At one time the large two story wood frame had been impressive. Italianate towers at each corner and a slate roof must have looked like a castle to the locals back in the gold rush days. Now the old mansion bore the scars of extreme wear. Sand pitted and opened to the wind; it was a wonder that it still held together.
Ironwood took a flashlight he kept in his glove compartment and switched it on and off to make sure that the batteries were still good. They both got out of the Jeepster at the same time, as if on cue, and approached the house.
“The last owner hastily vacated a little over one hundred years ago,” Alan added. “Very few people go near it. The Shoshone believed it was inhabited by evil spirits. I have been over it from top to bottom in hopes of finding some vestige of Morley’s work. It’s pretty barren.”
“This should be interesting,” Ironwood said. The front door to the house had nearly become completely unhinged. It was wide open and tilted at a thirty-degree angle. Ironwood noticed that only one screw remained to hold the top hinge in place and it was badly rusted. A gentle shove would probably be all that it would take to bring it down. “What a desolate place to build a house,” commented Ironwood looking at the rubble that had once been the front porch. “He must have had one hell of a reason?”
“Oh. . . I wouldn’t go that far. I know a physics professor that lives like a hermit out here in the desert.”
“No comparison,” Ironwood briskly pointed out. “I live in a town with forty to fifty other people, I have a car that
allows me quick access to civilization, I have a cell phone, and I have DirecTV. No,” he added shaking his head, “Morley was truly isolated. His reasons to live out here must have been very compelling.”
Alan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Inside Ironwood discovered each room to be as disappointingly empty as the next. The house was wood lathe and plaster construction instead of drywall; in places, the lathe showed through like brittle bones between rents of dead flesh. In some of the rooms on the second floor, they waded ankle deep in the lathe and plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. Shafts of Mojave sunlight streamed through large holes in the roof. Alan discouraged exploration of the earthen floor cellar because it was as vacant and barren as the desert except for a pair of concrete wash tubs that stood in one corner. The desert had invaded every room that they explored piling little heaps of sand in each corner as a calling card.
“Except for Morley,” said Alan as they returned to what had once been the foyer, “there has been only one other principle owner. That was in 1897, a Phillip Clervey. His stay lasted exactly a fortnight.”
“What happened to him?”
“He vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Just disappeared. The only thing anyone knew of his whereabouts is that Clervey had been seen that last evening running through the town of Darwin screaming unintelligible things. He was never heard from again.”
“You’ve done a lot of research.”
“Some,” Alan said mopping his forehead with his sleeve. “Copies of the Darwin Sun are on microfilm at the public library in Ridgecrest. The rest is common gossip. The people in the surrounding territory back in those days kept close scrutiny on Morley’s habits. They even kept a record of the amounts of food he consumed.”
“What on earth for?”
“It seems that Morley used an abnormally large amount of livestock for a household of that size.”
“Whatever happened to Morley?”
“He disappeared as well.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Ironwood frowned.
“Just that. One night he and the servants just up and vanished. Not a trace. Oh, there have been stories of noises from. . . ” Alan abruptly stopped talking and cocked his head slightly as if he was listening for something. A slight metallic grating noise became apparent and sounded like it was coming from the next room.
Ironwood and Alan exchanged glances and then quietly approached what had once been the living room. They rounded the doorway and a loud metallic clang caused the two of them to turn with a start. A sand lizard, a good twelve inches long, stood poised like a porcelain statue on top of a termite riddled fireplace mantel. On the floor was an old coffee can, rocking to and fro, apparently just toppled from its place on the mantel shelf. Ironwood leaned against the door frame and sighed. “A lizard,” he said with an expulsion of breath.
The sand lizard made a spastic jerk to its right and disappeared through a hole in the wall just above the mantel shelf. Ironwood stepped rapidly to the fireplace and shined his flashlight after it. “It seems that the lowly reptiles are the only ones who dare to live here anymore,” he said peering into the hole. When Alan didn’t reply, he turned around to see that his friend had his back to him. His right hand was up towards his face and Ironwood was left with the impression that he swallowed something. A second later he heard the snap of a lid being closed, and he watched as Alan quickly concealed a small pill box in his right jacket pocket.
“Alan, are you all right?”
Ward did an about face and with a smile that looked forced said, “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little startled, that’s all.”
Ironwood thought he looked pale. “Are you ill?” he asked.
“No, I’m perfectly well. So,” Alan said pointing to the fireplace and faking good humor again, “did our host go and leave us?”
“Yes,” he answered, also faking a smile. What was wrong with him? We have been out in the sun for two hours, and he looks as pale as a ghost. “He was very rude,” he added. “Left without saying goodbye.”
Ironwood breached the awkward silence that followed when he remembered where their conversation had left off when the lizard had intervened. “Alan, you mentioned something about noises being heard?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, delighted to talk about something else. “Most of it the usual haunted house stuff, although one report was quite specific. Shortly after Clervey was given up for lost, a group of people from Darwin heard a chorus of strange sounds coming from the house.”
“What kind of sounds?”
“They said it sounded like a flock of birds.”
“Birds?” Ironwood sounded incredulous.
“Yes. Seagulls.”
Seagulls were uncommon in the Mojave. Although they were prevalent on the west coast, they very seldom came this far. That was a strange thing to hear, Ironwood decided.
“The Darwin Sun reported on these sounds on three separate occasions. The reporter of the piece wrote that they grew fainter each time that they heard them. One conflicting report, though, has me troubled ever since the seabees uncovered that tunnel.”
“What was it?”
“The mayor and two of the town council back then swore that the sounds, although emanating from Isaac Morley’s property, did not come from the house. They said they came from beneath the ground.”
Even though the temperature inside the old Morley house was in the nineties, Ironwood felt a faint chill. The house had an uncomfortable feeling about it and he longed for the direct rays of the sun. Stepping out onto the rickety front steps, he looked up at the blazing noonday sun. Peering at it through squinted eyelids, he swore he could see flames dancing on its surface. He heard Alan’s steps behind him. “The name `Coso’ comes from a Shoshone word for fire. It probably referred to the abundant volcanic vents that send out hot vapors. Before the navy closed this area down to the public, the hot springs were popular among Indians as well as whites. These escaping gases could have caused your strange noises.”
“Could be,” said Alan, but he sounded unconvinced. After a long pause, he pointed off toward the horizon. “The Navy plans to build a supply road right down through here.”
“And take the house with it, I suppose?”
“Not only that, they’re going to blacktop over half of the area.”
Ironwood contemplated the dancing flames on the sun and felt sweat trickling down the back of his neck. “Alan, how would you like a partner in your venture?”
“Really?”
“We share a common ground. We both have work to do out here, and we both share a mutual distrust of Clayton Eastwater. As you know, I cannot tell you what my project consists of, I have been sworn to a secrecy oath that I don’t take lightly. But I can tell you this. As far as my project with the Navy is concerned, there is no reason you shouldn’t be allowed your few precious weeks of exploring. This area will be swarming with civilian construction workers for the next six months building several concrete block structures along with the roads and parking lots. After they are done, some of us from Mike Lab will move in, and that’s when the secrecy starts. Until then, you should be allowed to play archeologist and Spelunker all you want, if it was up to me, that is. Through all of this Eastwater has been behaving very suspicious. It gives me an uneasy feeling. He, of course, has always been a fly in the ointment to you, blocking your entry into the base. I’ll try to help in any way I can to speed up your research, and if you find anything that might involve Eastwater in all of this, I would appreciate it if you would pass it along.”
“Deal,” said Alan with marked enthusiasm. “I admire your strength Thomas, and if it is any consolation, you had me when you said, partner.’”
The cell phone on Ironwood’s hip started to play “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Surprised, Alan asked, “Your phone works all the way out here?”
“The Navy installed a series of one-hundred-sixty-foot cell towers on the base property, a few years ago, so they
were always connected.” Grabbing the phone, he touched the “Answer” icon on the glass faceplate and pressed it to the right side of his face. “Ironwood,” he said.
“Lieutenant Riggs here Professor,” said the voice on the other end. “There has been an accident at the tunnel.”
“Any casualties?” Ironwood alarmed, responded brusquely. The statement caused Alan to look at him questioningly.
“We don’t know sir. Will you come right away?”
The question, thought Ironwood, was awkwardly phrased coming from an officer that was used to giving orders. “Certainly,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I have one thing to take care of, and I’ll be there in roughly an hour.”
Ironwood heard the young officer clear his throat. “Captain Eastwater has ordered me to tell you that he wants you to drop whatever you are doing and come here immediately.”
“In that case Lieutenant, tell Eastwater that I’ll be there in two hours.” He touched the faceplate once again and returned the phone to the holster on his belt. He knew that the lieutenant would not relay his message, but it gave him satisfaction nonetheless. What he should do, he thought, was bring Ward along. The unwanted baggage would really set Eastwater off. He wouldn’t do it though, he wouldn’t be responsible for what would happen to his old friend, and now colleague, in the crossfire of rage that he knew would ensue. “Come on Alan,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”
They turned and walked back towards the Willys. Ironwood could tell that Alan was full of questions. He looked like he would burst at the seams.
CHAPTER 14
TUNNELS
Ironwood drove the Willys quickly up to the tunnel site. He had dropped Alan off at his house in Darwin and returned to the NWC by way of his back door route. The round trip took a little over two hours. The Willys roared to a sand spewing halt and Ironwood jumped out, still dressed in jeans and a cowboy hat. At arm's length from the steering wheel, he pressed on the center hub. The Jeep’s horn blared with a quavering ululation. The result had its desired effect. Before he had walked halfway to the hole in the ground, he saw Lieutenant Riggs pop-up partially out of the cavity and signal him to come along.