Chapter 19
Point Defiance Marina
Outskirts of Tacoma, WA
Hargrove stood at the railing of the pier platform, staring out at the water. Desolation and fallout aside, the view was spectacular. The clouds from yesterday had mostly drifted away, letting him fully enjoy the sight of the bay, the low forested landscape of the islands and the mainland shore, and if he turned around, the towering magnificence of Mt Rainier. He inhaled, trying to take in as much of the air as he could. As usual, the taste of it was sterile, harsh, and tinged with soot and salt. The filters on his face mask were good, but they couldn’t keep out everything. Still, it was satisfying, in a way. If nothing else, it gave him a hint of what everything would turn to, assuming anything else went wrong.
Like yesterday. His grip on the railing tightened, working back and forth. Tiny flakes and splinters fell from the weathered wood. With a supreme effort, he made himself stop, and turn slowly around. The three ‘associates’ stood in a loose line, several feet away. Their green coveralls were ripped and charred in many places, and smeared with mud and fuel oil, but they bore no visible injury, other than their original scars at neck and hands, and elsewhere hidden from sight. Behind the silver-framed glasses – saved through no small effort, after the previous day’s debacle– their faces were as blank as ever.
Hargrove took a step or two back and forth, marshalling his thoughts, and his temper. Finally, he faced the three men again. Repeat summary of events, he pulsed.
One of the agents – J-003, his brown hair a mess of short, singed curls – pulsed back immediately: All assets departed as instructed, upon alert of movement from suspected enemy base west of Olympia, through satellite thermal monitoring of entire Sound region. Movement rapidly determined to be single water transport, with two or more occupants, rounding Kitsap Peninsula. Assets took up position at northernmost tip of VashonIsland, per interception strategy. Engaged target vessel upon its entrance into Rich Passage, where manoeuvrability would be restricted, and likelihood of capture greatestbefore targets reached anticipated destination.
The scrolling text stopped, for a second or two, before resuming: Likelihood proved incorrect. After brief exchange of fire, target vessel rammed asset’s transport, resulting in destruction of both craft,andsignificant injuries to all parties. Lacking transport, hardened radiation gear, and precise knowledge of targets’ location, assets swam to rally point at present location. A second stop. Target group’s locationstill unknown– as isT-001’s, afterseparation from main force. Locator signal inactive, or masked. No indication of T-001’s status, or that of target group.
Hargrove had been furious before. Now, watching the words move across the lens, he was almost incandescent with rage. Long training and innate self-control kept this mostly out of his face and posture, except for the bone-white clench in both his fists, the knife-slash tightness of his mouth, and a mere flicker of heat in his eyes. In some ways, maybe, he was becoming more and more like his ‘associates’ than even he had thought was possible. A disturbing thought, but one that held a certain attraction – and one which was keeping him from smashing the assets and the pier to dust, out of sheer rage.
Dismissing these meditations, he pulsed: Last confirmed position of target group?
Nearest to southwestern shore of Bainbridge Island; between Lytle Beach and Fort Ward Park, J-003 returned. No sightings since engagement, and no noticeable movement detected, on Bainbridge or Kitsap– or from suspected base to the south. Currents not fully known; possibility high that target group was swept farther, west or east. No civilian or military facilities of note indicatedon island,based onsatellite and ground recon. Also no evidence yet found of serviceable transport from Bainbridge, by water, air or land. Sole land connection, Agate Pass Bridge, under continuous observation.
Growling under his breath, Hargrove turned away, looking across the water again. Makes sense, however much I hate it. After literally running into their pursuers, the targets would want to disappear again, fast, and under the nearest possible shelter. And being back at their starting point – in every sense of the word – they now had more options; all the more so with a base undoubtedly manned by others of their kind, with an unknown amount of weapons, gear and transport. It made Hargrove nervous, leaving a place like that at his back while he chased the main objective, but he didn’t have the manpower or resources to deal with it. For the time being, that is.
Nor would the targets stay in one place for too long. Moving was risky, but kept them from being pinned, as it had so far. He shifted his gaze northwest, toward Kitsap. And with the Facility – or what’s left of it– so close, they’ll want to move even sooner.
There had to be something of value at the old site. The fact that the targets were trying for it argued they couldn’t crack the canister, or its contents, and were seeking out tech they believed – or knew – might do so. And if one of the targets was who he was beginning to suspect, after re-watching the Monticello footage… It’d be a hell of a shock, if it was. But then again, the only way to be sure a Golem’s dead is to have one at your feet– in pieces. Airstrikes sound good to most, but tend to overshoot. Assuming that thought was correct, the chances were good they’d have info on exactly where to look in the Facility – and how to bring it back to their base, or use it on-site. That happens, I might as well swallow Tacitus, save Costa and his crowd the trouble.
He stared at the Vashon shoreline, as if he could see through it all the way to Kitsap. There was nothing in that area that could hide them for long, from visual, thermal or any of the other sensors on the now-geosynced satellites. Weather and fallout – and the Golems’ clingers – made it difficult to pinpoint exact movements of anything in the entire Sound area, but traces of these were still easy to pick up, with the right amount of effort. So where could they hunker down, away from all prying eyes, right on the Project’s front porch? He looked off toward the horizon, not really seeing it. Has to be something connected to it. Question is: How do they expect to get in, Golem or not? The Facility was tougher to enterthan Fort Knox, Langley, NORAD, and all the CIA’s black sites put together. So what –
He stopped. A slow, cunning smile stretched across his face, the first open one he’d worn in days. It was a slim chance, but the only one that was possible. The smile grew wider as he turned to face his ‘associates’. If it is, then this little road trip just became a whole lot more interesting– and fun. He laughed aloud at the thought. The sound echoed over the isolated spot.
Chapter 20
Naval Base Kitsap
Site of Project Golem
On the surface, the hallway was mostly unremarkable. The walls and floor were grey-white, and lit by soft fluorescents, giving it the look of an ordinary hospital corridor. The lack of doors or windows made clear it was anything but, however; the sight reminded Greg of temporary and permanent negative pressure passageways used to isolate patients with contagious disease. Or radiation. He crushed that thought back, and kept moving forward, one eye checking every inch of the walls, the other trained on the door ahead. Like the one to their ‘recovery room’, it was almost vault-like, with a keypad where the door handle would normally be. When he was within a couple of yards, the lights on the pad changed from red to green. Another buzzing alarm, a series of sharp clunks followed by the hiss of escaping air, and the door popped open, sliding back.
The others behind him stopped at once. Glancing back to check the rear, he saw Cayden and Leah mimicking his pose, hands at the weapons flaps of their clingers. Till we know for sure what’s ahead, this is all enemy territory. Even moreso, after what we’ve heard already– and whatever’s waiting ahead.
He stepped through the door, and found himself in another hallway. This one had several long, wide windows stretching in either direction, with heavy metal shutters drawn down. There was thick dust on the floor; traces of grime and mould decorated the walls. Other than a pair of grubby, unmade hospital beds against the wall, the
re was no sign anybody or anything had been in the place for years. Almost no sign; glancing down, he spotted a set of tracks, standing out starkly against the filth. Human tracks, made with hiking or military boots – and running from the door and down the hallway, disappearing around another corner. Greg gripped the pistol even harder. Someone had saved them, then, and patched them up – but what the hell for?
‘Turn right, then straight ahead,’ Gaia’s voice said. Greg looked to Leah and Cayden again, and lifted his free hand, making a V-sign with the first two fingers. At their nods, he hefted the pistol again, crouched lower, then sprang out around the corner. In a flash, he was across, and back in cover. Two dark blurs followed a heartbeat after: one to his right (Leah), the other to his left (Cayden), both disappearing almost as he registered them.
Other than a creak or two from the building settling, or from the wind outside, nothing happened. When this had lasted for maybe ten seconds, Greg spoke, keeping his voice to a murmur. ‘Where are we – exactly?’
‘The main hospital, in the southwest area of Kitsap Base,’ the voice responded. ‘Right at the edge of the old PX zone.’ A pause. ‘The entrance to the Project’s heart, for all intents and purposes.’
Greg looked to Cayden and Leah. They each made a small wave, telling him it was his call. Pistol raised, he rose, and padded almost soundlessly down the hall. He kept glancing around him as they walked, taking in every sight, sound, and smell. There was still no sign anyone had come near the place in years – but since there was no idea exactly what was waiting for them, he wasn’t taking chances.
A trio of doors, spaced wide apart, came up on the wall to his left. He was halfway past the second when he stopped: the light coming through the frosted glass was softer than it should be, with fluorescents. He raised a hand, motioning the others back, and gently grasped the door handle. Finding it turned easily, he pulled the door open – and froze. ‘What?’ Leah whispered.
Greg didn’t respond. He took several steps forward, until he was standing before the uncovered window. From the height of a line of far-off trees, he judged they were on the building’s third floor. The view was westward: the sun was setting, almost hidden behind the treeline, but still strong enough to reveal plenty of the surrounding terrain. A short distance away, through a thick fan of brush and trees, he saw the edges of a block-shaped building, its white paint dulled to a washed-out grey. A blacktop road, weathered almost to the same colour, formed a loop between both buildings, before stretching off in opposite directions. Bringing his face almost to the glass, Greg saw the nearer branch was shorter, curving under the trees to an open field 200 yards further on, then splitting again. He could just make out traces of white lines on both branches: track lanes.
Déjà vu washed over him in waves. He didn’t recognise any of the scenery – and yet, somehow, he did. Did I do laps on thatroad, when in the Project? Was that field a firing range, or where I practiced empty-handedcombat? Incoherent, hazy images played through his head: all he had, when it came to memories. Did I ever see anyone not in a clinger, or a uniform–
Something brushed at his sleeve. He started to whirl around, only to see Leah at his side again, and Cayden just behind her. They stared out at the view themselves, wearing looks probably much like his own: confused, unsettled, barely comprehending. Finally, Cayden seemed to shake himself free of the spell, and moved back toward the door, though keeping his body turned partway in the window’s direction. Greg followed him, checking all sightlines before stepping back out into the hallway; Leah brought up the rear.
Farther down, a pair of doors – plain polished wood now, with small windows – was almost in sight. Greg made a V-sign to the others, and started forward again, moving farther out in front. His step was a tad quicker, but still made only the barest rustling against the tiled floor. He told himself it was just the urge to get inside, and not the thrill of finally seeing ‘home.’ Part of him even listened. He searched his memory, trying to remember any previous time he’d seen this place. Nothing came; other than the ‘dreams,’ and the scattered snapshots – the training field, the labs, the barracks – everything was blank. Or scrubbed. The pistol came up higher. And maybe here’s the answer as to why.
Another blue lens gleamed above the doors as the three Golems came close. Keeping one eye on it, Greg tugged lightly at one door handle, then jumped back – he’d lost count of how many rigged entrances he’d cleared. When nothing happened, he pulled at it again, extending his gun hand through the gap. Beyond was a darkened lobby and reception area, also painted white, with green trim. Despite what he’d expected in the wake of the Bomb, there were almost no signs of a hurried evacuation: no scattered papers, no dropped or missing computers, not even a stray wheelchair or stretcher. More proof.
Leah and Cayden fanned out to both sides, checking the adjoining hallways. No response of any kind came. Greg swept the reception desk, and looked up to the ceiling. No cameras, and no easy sightlines. If they moved further into the place, who knew what traps or other surprises were waiting.
He started to turn, to check the next move with Leah, then stopped. Above the centremost elevator, almost out of sight from the door, he could see a round white disc set into the wall – with a blue lens in the centre. He moved closer, nerves singing with tension. Leah and Cayden came next, keeping their eyes and guns moving over the front doors and all other access points.
He halted before the centre elevator, which had a yellow and black Out of Order sign taped to one door. As he stood there, there was a cheery ding, and the doors slid open. He jumped back, and turned around, looking to Leah and Cayden. They were every bit as tense – but neither made a move to run, or looked about to suggest it. Taking one last look around the room, Greg got in, moving aside to the corner to let Leah and Cayden follow. Once everyone was aboard, the doors closed. The car started – heading downward, and silently, without any bumps or jolts that would indicate constant usage, or neglect-related wear.
After perhaps five seconds, it stopped. The doors didn’t open. ‘Press 3, please,’ the voice said, now emanating from the car’s overhead speaker. Sharing a wary look with the others, Greg stepped forward, and put his thumb to the button. A soft buzzer sounded from somewhere. Above the row of buttons, the small, square light panel suddenly changed colour, becoming bright red: a palm-scanner. Cautiously, he placed his hand flat against this.
The panel changed again, to light green. There was the faintest crackle from the ceiling, then Gaia’s smooth, calm voice. ‘Access confirmed.’ The voice paused, for hardly more than two seconds. Greg heard a faint set of clunking sounds, somewhere above them. ‘Surface entry points secured. All detection systems functioning. Stand by for final descent.’
With no other warning, the elevator dropped again. Greg’s ears popped, making him cringe. He grabbed for the wall handhold but had hardly grasped it when the car slowed again. Another clunk from above; a hatch, or security door, for added protection. Wonder how they built the whole set–up,if the building was already there. Or maybe the whole structure was a fake to begin with. He pulled his mind away from these thoughts. Concentrate on how they built the real surprises– and whatever those are.
The car came to another halt. This time, the doors slid open. Instead of a hospital floor, there was a grim, harshly lit concrete room, and a wheeled, blue metal rail platform, sitting on a set of tracks. Following these with his eyes, Greg saw that the tracks extended into a tunnel, similarly lined with concrete and metal support beams. He looked up at the ceiling, where he could almost see another blue-eyed lens through the frosted lighting panels. ‘Where’s this lead?’ he demanded.
‘To the answers you wanted,’ Gaia replied, still in that smooth tone. When none of the Golems made a move, her – its? – voice went on. ‘Please believe me, Gregory; I do not intend to harm you, or Leah, or Cayden. I am only here to show you what you came here for: the truth.’
The three Golems shared another look. Finally, Gr
eg went first, pulling open a section of the metal railing and letting Leah and Cayden climb in first. Stepping onto it himself, he went to the small control box at the front, where he spotted a joystick, and another palm scanner. When he put his hand to it, a low thrumming sound made the platform rattle, before settling into a barely noticeable vibration. Face expressionless as Cayden’s now, he grasped the small joystick at the top of the box, and pushed it forward.
The platform started forward, gliding down the tracks. Greg took hold of the railing, but soon discovered he didn’t need to; the platform was moving at a steady but slow clip, without so much as a bump. Chancing a look over the side, he saw maybe six inches of space between the bottom of the platform and the tracks: maglevs. Lights came on in the ceiling as the platform passed beneath them and shut off once it was past. They made one smooth, wide curve at one point; other than this, the ride stayed almost perfectly straight. From this, Greg guessed they were following an existing surface road, or maybe even tracks; some other bases he’d seen in the course of his duties had them, to move heavy equipment or supplies when trucks or forklifts wouldn’t do. He tried to calculate how far they’d come, from what he remembered of the satellite readouts of the Kitsap base area. Nothing was certain, but he was willing to guess they were somewhere close to the centre, where the Trident missile storage and main base complex were set – and getting closer by the second.
He eased the joystick back. The platform began to slow. Ahead, more lights came on, illuminating a loading area like the one they’d started from – except for one glaring difference: A pair of massive metal doors, set what Greg guessed to be a metre deep into the wall. They loomed over the bay like brooding giants, the light reflecting off them with a dull, harsh glare. There was a keypad and scanner identical to the elevator’s on the left-hand side, and another of Gaia’s blue eyes in the ceiling above; other than this, the area was as unadorned and severely functional as the walls of the tunnel they’d just come through.
Discarded Page 26