Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  I scanned to the bottom for the signature, and my mouth fell open.

  But it couldn’t be!

  My Dear Miss Keyes,

  If you are reading this message, then you truly are the intelligent, savvy young woman I took you for. For whatever reason, you always seemed to undervalue yourself and allowed others to do the same. But despite that remarkable, “flat” affect you habitually present to the world, I recognized that there was much more to you than you were willing to reveal.

  As regards to this message? I had to find a way to communicate with you, Miss Keyes, and it could not be out in the open. They are hunting for me, you see, and I could not take the chance that they might be monitoring you. Not that I think they are, mind you, but I could not risk it.

  You see, you and the rest of the world think I’m dead.

  “No kidding!” I muttered.

  Unfortunately, Cushing knows better.

  Gemma (I hope it is all right that I call you by your first name as we did at Sandia?), you were aware that I was doing advanced and classified R&D on the civilian side of things at Sandia. Dr. Prochanski liked to report on the state of “our” work, but the truth is that it was all me. I was doing the work; all the theories and efforts were mine. Dr. Prochanski may have led the AMEMS lab, but Sandia brought me in because my research in MEMS was, quite accurately, years ahead of anything his puny mind could conceptualize.

  Dr. Prochanski, that underachieving braggart, couldn’t grasp the progress I was making—let alone the science behind it! I should say, “the progress I made.” Yes, I finally achieved the breakthrough I had theorized about and sought for more than thirty-five years. Thirty-five years of hard work, of dedicated research, design, and development! I, at last, achieved my breakthrough goal.

  You also might not know that Dr. Prochanski kept our DOE oversight in the dark about the state of my projects. Now I’m going to tell you why you lost your job—and why I had to “die.”

  Dr. Prochanski had a secret deal with General Cushing—a secret deal he thought I knew nothing about. You see, I objected to any military appropriation or national security application of my work. Prochanski knew that and General Cushing knew that. They plotted to get my breakthrough to a prototype stage and then seize it for national security purposes—take it from the civilian side at Sandia to the military side.

  And they believed I was only at the “prototype” stage! They were the ones in the dark, despite Prochanski’s efforts to monitor, record, and steal my work.

  Gemma, when we worked together at Sandia, I stayed aloof from everyone. As a person trying to hide my true agenda from Cushing and Prochanski, I couldn’t help but notice you, to a degree, doing the same thing.

  Yes, though you were an excellent member of the AMEMS team, you kept your little shield up all the time. I concluded that you had a need, just as I had a need, to protect yourself. I don’t say I understand your motives, but I recognized a kindred spirit in you.

  Dear girl, I am so sorry that you lost your job. Prochanski was one of the most egotistical individuals I’ve had the displeasure to know. I tried to warn you, Gemma, (in the most subtle manner) that he could not be trusted, but you were, quite understandably, loyal to him and could not see how evil a man he was.

  Yes, he truly is dead. Again, I am sorry for your loss.

  On the last day you worked at Sandia, when you overheard Prochanski and Cushing’s unguarded conversation in the conference room, you were no longer of any use to Prochanski. In fact, you became a threat, a liability to their plans. So Prochanski decided to get rid of you, and Cushing arranged to besmirch your security clearance. You’ll never work for government again.

  “I knew it,” I growled.

  I hope that sad experience ripped the blinders from your eyes? But all is not lost! I told you that Dr. Prochanski kept our DOE oversight in the dark about the state of my R&D. Well, guess what? I kept him in the dark, too. I have much to tell you on this topic, but can divulge nothing more in this message.

  You must be wondering why I’m reaching out to you, Gemma. Here I must admit that I’m in a bit of a spot. To be plain, I need help and have no one in the immediate locale I can trust. Because we share a kindred spirit, I am willing to trust you. Will you trust me?

  I stopped reading. It was a bit hard to reconcile this open, quite human person to the aloof, taciturn Dr. Bickel I knew. Oh, I recognized the brilliant-but-arrogant braggart in the first part of the message, but this “kindred spirit” stuff? All new to me.

  On the other hand, if Dr. P was—had been—as underhanded as Dr. Bickel wrote, then yes, I could understand why Dr. Bickel had maintained a rigid distance from his coworkers. I could understand completely.

  I skimmed the last few lines and then re-read them, studied them with care.

  I can’t risk another email landing in your inbox. If you are afraid of getting involved, I won’t blame you. Imogene Cushing is that scary. But if you are willing to take a chance or at least take another step, look for another piece of spam tomorrow.

  Sincerely,

  Daniel Bickel

  PS: Delete this message and purge your email’s trash folder.

  I stared at the document, processing all Dr. Bickel had written—processing the fact that he was alive!

  So whatever disaster occurred in the AMEMS lab, Dr. P died but Dr. Bickel got away?

  General Cushing had managed to cover up the absence of Dr. Bickel’s body in the lab’s rubble—making Dr. Bickel dead to the world. I pondered the implications of such an “accomplishment” and didn’t like what I came up with.

  The stakes in this game are high, I thought, high enough for Cushing to declare a man dead who wasn’t, and high enough for Cushing’s superiors to give her the support she needed to pull off such a cover-up.

  I was saddened again over Dr. Prochanski’s death, but then I replayed the scene in the conference room on my last day at Sandia. I recalled every nuanced word and every denigrating remark that had come out of General Cushing’s smiling mouth. I remembered how she had arched her eyebrow and smiled—and how Dr. P had revealed his true colors.

  Oh, I remembered it all.

  Dr. Bickel is right. Cushing is scary, I thought. Scary and evil.

  But you, Dear Reader? You recollect when I wrote about that day that I’d seen worse. You remember that, don’t you? Yes, Cushing was scary and evil.

  But I’d tackled worse.

  The doorbell rang. It jolted me out of my deep reflection. I closed down my laptop and went to the door. I peeked through the peephole.

  Dark hair and grey eyes stared back at me.

  Holy crud. Zander Cruz.

  I cracked open the door.

  “Hi, Gemma. I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

  “Um, no. It’s fine.” I opened the door for him to come in. Instead, he gestured to the front steps.

  “I prefer to not give the neighbors anything to gossip about.”

  I instantly pictured Mrs. Calderón’s pudgy chin and nose flattened against her front window—just before she waddled over to my yard to poke her nose into my business. “Agreed, but the resident gossip has a bird’s-eye view of my front porch. How about we sit on the back steps like before?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He took the steps two at a time and headed around the side of the house. I ran to the kitchen, dropped ice in two glasses, and grabbed a jug of lemonade from the fridge. When I opened the back door, Zander was studying my garden.

  Jake was winding his way in and out of Zander’s legs. I hardly knew what to think of Jake’s taking to Zander. I shot the cat a malevolent look. He put his nose in the air and strutted away.

  “What do you think?” It was an inane opening to a conversation, but it’s what came out of my mouth.

  “I think it’s doing as well as can be expected.” He took a glass from me. “Thanks! I’ve been on the road all morning. How did you know my throat feels like roadkill broiling in the sun?”
<
br />   I nearly spewed lemonade. “Um, quite the colorful description.”

  He laughed. “Sorry. That’s just me. I’m never what folks expect.”

  I wondered what he meant but turned the conversation back to my garden. “What did you mean by ‘as well as can be expected’?”

  He walked over to the plot and pointed at my tomatoes. “Well, it’s the hottest part of the summer, so your plants are struggling just like everyone else’s are. On the other hand, your soil is just too much clay. Clay is dense. You have to water way too much before the water soaks down to your plants’ roots, and the roots themselves are probably rotting. They are crowded and waterlogged.”

  “Well, what can I do about that?”

  “Amend the soil with some mulch and garden soil. You really need to do that in the spring before you plant, but you have time to work some in this season.”

  “Okaaay.”

  He laughed again. “If you’re not doing anything, let’s hop in my car and I’ll show you what to get.”

  An hour later we were back with bags of garden soil, an expense I couldn’t afford. I bought them anyway. Zander and I talked the entire hour to and from the store and never ran out of things to say. Of course I didn’t mention the astonishing email from a dead scientist I’d decoded and read before Zander had arrived, but it wasn’t far from my mind.

  As he was leaving Zander asked, “What’s the deal with the boy across the way?” He tipped his head in the general direction of Mateo Martinez’ house.

  I glanced over. True to form, Emilio huddled on the curb in the tiny patch of shade the overgrown shrubs provided. He was fiddling with something in his lap and I glimpsed the flash of a blade. He was whittling again.

  Emilio, as though sensing us talking about him, glared at us from under his dark brows. I frowned. He reciprocated.

  “That’s Emilio.”

  “He was sitting out there when I pulled up the last time I was here and was still there when I left. Is he always out on the curb?”

  I shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  Zander gave me a quizzical look. “Does he live around here?”

  “Sure. Right there. He lives with his uncle and his uncle’s girlfriend.”

  “Do you think he’s being taken care of properly?”

  I was starting to feel a little defensive. I shrugged again. “I don’t know—his uncle runs with a gang, so everyone in the neighborhood steers clear of them. And Emilio has broken into my garage twice and my house at least once. He’s the reason I have all these bars on the windows and doors.”

  Zander stared at me unblinking, and I had the impression that I’d given a disappointing answer. It didn’t help that I heard Aunt Lucy’s voice echoing in my head, It’s our job to help those whom God places in front of us—especially those who are defenseless.

  I shoved her words into a dark corner and set my jaw: No way this kid qualifies as “defenseless.” He’s a little thief. A little gangster in the making.

  Zander studied Emilio across the cul-de-sac. Emilio shot Zander a fierce snarl in return. Zander murmured a preoccupied goodbye to me and strode toward his car. I shrugged again and turned to go inside.

  When I didn’t hear Zander’s car start I looked out the window and, openmouthed, watched Zander striding across the cul-de-sac. He held what looked like a couple of Powerade bottles in his hands. He walked up to Emilio and squatted in front of him.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I watched, trying to understand what Zander was doing. He and Emilio exchanged a few words. Zander held the drinks toward Emilio who, after a moment’s hesitation, took them.

  Zander said a few more words and Emilio looked away but ducked his head in assent. Then Zander clapped Emilio on the shoulder and stood up. He waved his hand once at Emilio and came back across the road and got in his car.

  He saw me in the window and waved once to me, too. I lifted my hand in return, but I was watching Emilio. He was chugging one of the bottles.

  Aunt Lucy’s voice returned with more insistence. It’s our job to help those God places in front of us—especially those who are defenseless.

  Zander: Do you think he’s being taken care of properly?

  I don’t know—his uncle runs with a gang so everyone in the neighborhood steers clear of them. And Emilio’s broken into my garage twice and my house at least once. He’s the reason I have all these bars on the windows and doors.

  I realized that I was holding my breath and blew it out. Frustrated and disquieted, I stepped away from the window.

  I WAITED UNTIL AFTER three in the afternoon the next day to check my spam folder. There I found a message with the subject line, Don’t Wait! Refi Now—Federally In$ured!

  “Clever, Dr. Bickel,” I whispered.

  I opened the email and scanned its brief contents: a very questionable link and another image. I picked the image, saved it to my flash drive, and ran it through the same processes as I had with the picture yesterday. I discovered another zipped file hidden in the image, named “read_me.zip.”

  After I’d scanned the zipped file and extracted its contents, I found two items: a text file named “read_first” and a PDF file named “print_me.” I scanned the files for viruses and then opened the text file.

  The only words in the text file were, “Print other at once and delete all.”

  My venerable old HP 5P spit out the PDF file in seconds. I made sure the copy—several pages long—was complete before I deleted the files from my flash drive, deleted the email from my spam folder, and deleted the deleted email from my email’s trash.

  The last thing I did was to reformat my flash drive—not that I thought that taking those precautions would be enough if someone were inside Google’s main servers where their email backups are stored, but at least a cursory glance would flag nothing out of the ordinary.

  I picked up the three printed pages and skimmed them. The first page contained a map? The other two pages were printed instructions—no, directions—with references to the map. I read the directions and followed them with my finger on the map, my mouth widening in disbelief.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” I breathed. “Oh, Dr. Bickel! What have you done?”

  Chapter 7

  If you were to use Google Earth as I did and follow Tramway through Albuquerque as far south as far it goes, you would pass over a shopping area and then various housing developments. Beyond those housing developments lay the mountain indicated by Dr. Bickel’s map.

  The mountain on Dr. Bickel’s map is pretty innocuous as far as mountains go: rounded, unimposing, not terribly high. I’d hiked and climbed around in Albuquerque foothills that were more challenging. Still, I studied the mountain to become familiar with its peculiarities.

  From above I scanned all around the mountain and counted the ring of bunkers built into the mountain’s flanks. I spied the road that banded the mountain, connecting the bunkers. And there was no missing the PIDAS at the base of the mountain, not far below the road. The PIDAS and the patrol roads on either side cut a wide swath out of the mountain. The tall, razor-wire-topped fences running parallel around the mountain were the main attraction.

  The satellite details were a little fuzzy, but one thing was quite clear: all of what I studied lay inside Kirtland Air Force Base’s perimeter fence.

  And he wants me to follow this map and his directions?

  I’d done my research, too. I knew that the mountain had housed weapons back in the day. Supposedly the place was riddled with tunnels carved out by the military. Supposedly the mountain wasn’t guarded all that well any more.

  And supposedly Dr. Bickel hadn’t lost his mind.

  Still, sane or not, Dr. Bickel was asking me to come—to trespass on the base and enter the mountain. He was asking me to risk a lot.

  Because I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else attempting what I did, I won’t record exactly where my approach to the mountain began. It’s enough to say that I followed Dr.
Bickel’s map and directions, including his advice to wear good boots and gloves.

  It was evening, past dusk. I drove slowly through one of the residential areas that butted up against the foothills along the base’s border. The foothills here are designated Albuquerque open space. Hiking trails wind through the open space, open space that adjoins and follows the base’s perimeter fence.

  Signs at the trailheads proclaim that the open space closes at 10 p.m. and announce that hikers are under video surveillance. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, and I didn’t want to leave my car at the trailhead where it would attract unwanted attention, so I decided to park a couple of blocks away from one of the trailheads.

  I found a good spot on a side street, shouldered the small rucksack I carried, and headed uphill to the trailhead. All was quiet as I set out on well-used paths leading from the trailhead into the open space.

  The days were long now, so it was already late. The scent of grasses and warm dirt wafted to me on the evening air. Off to the west, the last glow of the sun silhouetted the west mesa and faintly outlined the mountain west and south of me.

  I angled a little east through the open space, passed through a hiker’s gate in a barbed wire fence, and kept going. I walked under darkening skies, following various markers on the map, then slanted south, toward the base’s fence.

  The base’s boundary line wasn’t far, actually. It took me only another five minutes to reach it. I followed the fence line for about a quarter mile more.

  Dr. Bickel’s map and instructions told me to look for a scrub piñon up against the fence. He described the tree’s shape and other markers nearby. I found the tree without any difficulty: It was down in an arroyo, what New Mexicans call a gully or a “wash.”

  His instructions told me to crawl under the branches of the bushy tree. I would find, he wrote, that flash floods had washed the earth from around the tree’s roots and scoured the soil out from under the fence. I donned my well-worn pair of leather gloves, climbed down into the arroyo, wriggled my way under the low branches, and came smack up against the fence—just as Dr. Bickel had said I would.