Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  The arroyo was strewn with rocks and gravel; the bottom of the fence was, at its most accessible point in the arroyo, perhaps a foot off the ground—room enough for me to squeeze under if I pushed my rucksack ahead of me first.

  I peered through the chain link. On the other side the patrol road ran parallel to the fence. However, the arroyo’s terrain was rough and its edges crumbling, so they had pulled the patrol road away from the arroyo’s banks. The road was farther from the fence line here than it had been before I reached the piñon. From the bottom of the arroyo I could no longer see the road—and neither could someone on the road see the bottom of the wash. Or me.

  Dr. Bickel’s notes insisted that the base ran patrol infrequently and that the fence wasn’t closely inspected. That said, from this point on, there would be no doubt of my being in an area where I had no business being.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself—and stalled out.

  Right there, under the inky sky, I almost bailed. It would have been easy to turn around and go back home.

  Was I scared?

  Well, was I planning to trespass on a U. S. military base?

  Was I, furthermore, preparing to venture into a restricted government area without due authorization?

  Um, yeah. So right-o, I was scared. The base might not post armed guards around the mountain 24/7 anymore, but I didn’t care to compile a list of all the laws I was about to break.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d gone over this moral and legal ground. But each time I held argument with myself, a reaction in the pit of my stomach—a response more powerful than merely “scared”—egged me on. The gut-level truth was: I was angry. I was angry with Dr. P and General Cushing—angry that their schemes had cost me my livelihood and angry that, through no fault of my own, I had been embroiled in plots and plans I had nothing to do with.

  Angry people do rash things, sometimes foolish and rebellious things. Aunt Lu’s cautioning voice resounded in my head, warning me not to allow my emotions to dictate my decisions.

  Yet on the other side, the rash side, along with my anger, surged a conviction: What Cushing and Prochanski had intended to do to Dr. Bickel was wrong. Criminally wrong. It was murder, plain and simple. Now Dr. Bickel said he needed my help. He was the innocent party here, and if I could help him, shouldn’t I? And if I could do something to stop General Cushing, shouldn’t I do it?

  Really? The voice of reason sneered, heavy on the sarcasm. Really? You do something? You might as well be a gnat nipping at a bear’s behind, for all the effect you could hope to have on an Air Force major general and a federal government program run amok.

  I’d ridden this train of thought enough times that I was becoming efficient at shutting down my internal scruples.

  I know, I know. Not smart at all.

  Right there, huddled at the bottom of a washed-out gully, I used my anger and sense of “justice” as the tool to lever caution aside. Again, I acknowledge: not smart at all.

  The good news was that I would live through this ill-advised course of action.

  The bad news? I would live to regret it.

  The night was darkening; if I was going ahead, I needed to get moving.

  I pushed my rucksack under the fence. It took me longer to wriggle through, scraping against the rock-strewn arroyo bed as I went. A few minutes later I was officially trespassing on the base.

  An owl called somewhere out in the night as I knelt and leaned against the wrong side of the fence. Then I crawled up the side of the arroyo and ran across the patrol road. Crouched in the dark, I opened Dr. Bickel’s map.

  I needed enough light to see the map and the directions I was to follow. A dependable Maglite hung from my belt but, it was not for use out in the open. I had no idea who, civilian or military, might be watching the backside of this mountain. If I switched on a flashlight in the starry night, I would be painting a target on myself. I palmed a tiny penlight to illuminate the map; my hand would shield its light from observing eyes.

  Not far away from where I knelt, another patrol road intersected the one following the fence line. For the first part of my trek I was to follow the intersecting road as it led south and west, in the general direction of the mountain. Once I had my bearings, I crept along, not on the road, but alongside it. The ground undulated with holes, cracks, and dry beds where runoff had scored deep cracks in the sandy soil. I walked in the low spots as much as possible. Then the terrain began to slope upward.

  Above me I saw the outline of the old PIDAS. I headed directly for the fences. The route sloped upward the entire way, but I kept the PIDAS in front of me. When I drew close to it, I ducked down behind some brush to consider my next move.

  A patrol road ran alongside the PIDAS on its outside perimeter; another road ran along its inside perimeter. Between the roads, the military had graded a great, wide swath of ground. Atop the ground, they had laid a mesh of interconnected sensors and spread dirt over it. They had erected the fences along the length of the swath. The roads, the sensors, and the parallel fences completely enclosed the mountain.

  Back when the government stored weapons in the tunnels, one of the fences had been electrified and the sensor system under the graded dirt had been active. Dr. Bickel said the PIDAS wasn’t active anymore, but that didn’t make the fences topped with razor wire any less intimidating.

  I estimated the distance straight across the patrol roads and the PIDAS to be fifty yards or more. Fifty very long yards where I would be completely out in the open with only the night to hide me. I shivered a little. At least the wire mesh and sensors laying under the swath were no longer active.

  Says here in fine print.

  (Skepticism alert!)

  I consulted Dr. Bickel’s map. It took a while to find the markers indicated on the map and align myself with them. I walked five minutes south in the brush below the PIDAS before I spotted the three rocks on the opposite side of the PIDAS and the other patrol road: One of the rocks was as tall as I was. The other two, one piled atop the other, were just shorter than the first.

  Before I stepped onto the smoothed earth, I followed Dr. Bickel’s instructions and tore off a branch of sagebrush. Then I faced the three rocks straight on and marched toward them. I crossed the outside patrol road and continued toward the fence, wagging the piece of brush in the dirt behind me to scuff my footprints. When I reached the fence I shone my penlight down. There, along the closest fence post, I saw nearly invisible vertical cuts in the links.

  Clever.

  My instructions said to push the section of fence forward, not pull it back. I did so, and tossed my rucksack ahead before squeezing through myself, dragging my piece of sagebrush with me.

  I pushed the fencing back into place, taking care to line up the cut links, and brushed the dirt around the fence bottom, scuffing out the scribed marks the fence section had made in the dirt. I wasn’t terribly worried about my footprints or the marks the fence made. The swath, perhaps once well-tended, was now dotted with desert grass and small brush that, from its looks, the military probably mowed once a year.

  Then I scuttled through the no-man’s land to the second fence, sweeping my footprints behind me. I found similar cuts in the second fence and pushed through just as I had with the first one. I shoved the fence back into alignment and smoothed out the dirt.

  I got to the other side of the dirt swath, crossed the inside patrol road, and looked back to see if my brushed footprints showed. If they did, I couldn’t tell. It was too dark.

  I stowed my “broom” behind the three rocks and climbed the slope above me. Next I would reach the road that banded the mountain and connected the bunkers.

  I crested the slope, slipped between barbed wire strands, and stepped onto the road. I didn’t waste any time there. Heart pounding, I crossed quickly.

  From there my track angled to the left and was steeper. I pushed on.

  Fifteen minutes later I stumbled in the dark toward the next marker, a flat ledge
. On the right, shadows played over sagebrush, boulders, and weeds. To the left of the ledge and straight ahead hung a black void. The map warned me of an abrupt drop-off, so I approached with caution.

  When I at last stood on the flat ledge, the map pointed me right, at an oblique angle. My route was all steeply rugged now.

  According to the instructions, my objective was above me: a rocky outcropping on the side of the mountain. When I reached the rocks I was breathing hard—it had been a challenging climb. I stepped behind a boulder and sat back on my heels to rest and study my next moves.

  The penlight on the now-grimy sheet illuminated the words, “Head for the middle of the outcropping. When you see the tallest pillar, go behind it. There you’ll find a door.”

  A door in the middle of what was basically a wall of rocks? I drank some water and waited for my heart rate to slow.

  I found “the tallest pillar” in a field of boulders. The only way to get behind it was to crawl over and around a bunch of other very large rocks. It took me a while—in the dark with only my penlight to guide me—to arrive “behind” the tallest pillar.

  Dear Reader: I particularly detest the idea of climbing around in a pile of rocks—in the dark—with the specter of scorpions and snakes lurking on, around, and under every rock. I had to force myself to crawl and climb. Dr. Bickel’s instructions to wear good hiking boots and leather gloves were never more appreciated. Regardless, I kept my hands away from cracks and niches.

  At last—no mean feat!—I was behind the tallest of the rock columns. I played my tiny light over the wall behind the pillar and saw nothing. I looked again. On my third scan I glimpsed the barest glint of metal. I pointed the light at what might be an edge of some kind. I clambered over another rock and around an unexpected curve—practically a left-hand turn. I followed the unexpected turn and was confronted by a thick metal door. It was cleverly angled away from the pillar so that only its edge had hinted at it.

  Whoever had installed the door had made sure it would not be easily seen, even in daylight, and whoever had constructed the door had done so a long while ago. Its exterior was weathered and corroded—and quite without handle or any visible means of opening it. I referred again to my instructions.

  “With your left toe, press the lower left corner of the door. At the same time, press the upper right corner with your hand,” I recited.

  I’m not that tall. I stretched myself out, as far as I could, left toe and right hand, corner to corner across the door. I pressed fingers and boot toe where indicated. Nothing happened—and then under my fingers I felt something give. Still, the door did not open. I pushed with my booted left toes with the same result—nada. Frustrated, I pressed my fingers over the upper right corner of the door and kicked the toe of my left hiking boot into the door’s lower left corner.

  Click.

  The door eased outward an inch or so, just far enough for me to wrap my fingers around the frame. A cool breeze flowed from the other side of the door. I wrenched it open—and then I was inside.

  I won’t kid you: I was convinced that the heavy door would slam shut behind me leaving me with no way to reopen it from the inside—leaving me trapped inside the mountain. Because that’s what happens in every scary movie, right? Well, I was not going to be the expendable, no-name character, the “red shirt” in this scenario.

  I unclipped the Maglite from my belt and wedged it between the door and its rusted frame, propping the door open. With my penlight I searched the inside of the doorframe and the door.

  I heaved a sigh of relief: The inside door had a wheel of sorts connected to a series of flat bars. I grabbed the wheel and turned it in a half circle. The bars, similar to gears, pivoted and rotated, and my penlight picked up the movement of bolts, top and bottom, sliding out of the door’s thick core.

  Closed position. I spun the wheel the other direction and the bolts retracted. Open position. I retrieved my flashlight and allowed the door to swing shut.

  I don’t know how the makers managed it, but I observed the wheel spin on its own and heard the bolts slam home, sealing the door, making it one with the mountain. For an awful second, terror overcame me—until I spun the wheel again and, with a hiss, the door opened.

  I restarted my heart, nodded to myself, and pulled the door closed once more. The wheel turned. The bolts slid home.

  I was emotionally sapped, but I was, finally, inside the mountain.

  Time to move on.

  I glanced at Dr. Bickel’s cryptic instructions and followed the only passageway, a narrow thing, leading away from the door. After three turns, the passage narrowed further, but ahead I glimpsed a welcome glow of light. The light came through a crack at the end of the passage. I pushed my way through the crack and out from behind a massive iron beam into a wide tunnel with a high ceiling. Dim electric lights mounted along the walls lit the tunnel.

  I looked around. Other beams supported the walls and ceilings of the tunnel. As tunnels went, it was large enough for my Toyota—and a slew of other vehicles—all at the same time.

  I was in one of the mountain’s main tunnels.

  I’d downloaded and studied old maps of the mountain’s storage facility that I’d found on the Internet—and that’s not saying much, because there aren’t that many. The maps showed four large “plants” within the facility. They were connected by main tunnels. This side of the mountain, however, housed only one of the plants. If the maps were accurate, that plant was far south of my location. So why the tunnel? Where did it lead and why wasn’t it on the map?

  And yet it’s here, I reasoned. It has to lead somewhere.

  Not wanting to “lose” the beam that hid the crack from which I’d emerged (and thus lose my return route), I scraped a faint line on it near the stone floor.

  My instructions told me to proceed down the tunnel, so I tiptoed on, nervous and shivering, not with cold, but with anxiety. It wasn’t that I was scared of the tunnels in the mountain—the tunnels had been there for generations, after all. I wasn’t concerned that they would collapse, and I wasn’t walking along in total darkness.

  I was maybe a little worried that I could get lost, but not too much so. From the diagrams I’d found on the Internet, the tunnels, while extensive, had not been constructed as a maze. Four primary tunnels ran straight, two north and south, parallel to each other, and two east and west, parallel to each other and perpendicular to the other two. A few branches on the north end angled away from the north/south and east/west tunnels.

  My concern was that Dr. Bickel’s instructions had already taken me into uncharted tunnels. I’m talking about the passage from the outside door leading here and “here” not showing up on the map. Would I run into more unmapped tunnels and passages? Who knew what kind of winding warren those might prove to be? But how could Dr. Bickel remain undetected inside the mountain unless he was hiding in an uncharted, unused area?

  I had a little anxiety, too, about what I would find when I reached the map’s terminus. What was Dr. Bickel concealing there? More importantly, why had he “invited” me to help him? What help could I, Gemma Keyes, possibly give him?

  The inside of the tunnels reminded me of the last Terminator movie I’d seen. John Connor and his girlfriend were directed into an underground bunker where they thought they would find the means to end SkyNet before it took over the world.

  In reality, they’d been sent to an abandoned bomb shelter—an old devolution site, a safe place for the heads of our nation to survive a nuclear war and still carry out the functions of government.

  Was I headed to a similar location?

  (And did you know most of that movie was filmed in and around Albuquerque? Not the most reassuring factoid.)

  I stared at the map, startled to realize I’d overshot the next marker.

  “Crud!”

  To my consternation, my whisper echoed down the tunnel. I shut up and backtracked, looking for . . . another steel beam with a mark on it?

&nbs
p; There. On the opposite side of the tunnel. At least I hoped it was the beam noted on my map. A soft scrape at its base identified it. Behind the beam and mostly obscured by the beam’s width, I located a narrow hole in the rock that opened about a foot off the floor of the tunnel.

  “That’s a lot smaller than the last crack I crawled through,” I grumbled.

  Did I say the hole was narrow? It was perhaps two and a half feet high, less than a foot wide. I shone my light inside, but the hole was so narrow that I couldn’t get my head positioned to see what the light revealed.

  I’m supposed to squeeze through that?

  I certainly was not inclined to “squeeze though” into an unknown situation. Cramming myself through a small space to reach a large, well-lit tunnel had been easy. Leaving the large, well-lit tunnel to squeeze into the unknown—the dark unknown—was not a happy prospect.

  I dithered one or two minutes before deciding I would reach my hand inside and feel around. Again, I was grateful to be wearing gloves. Whatever creepy crawlers might be inside the crack, the gloves would protect me from them.

  Right?

  Riiight.

  (Liberal dose of acerbic irony sprinkled here.)

  I plunged my hand inside the tiny crevasse and felt nothing but air. I leaned in, inserted my arm up to my shoulder, and moved my gloved hand about, searching for a sense of what lay beyond, for anything solid.

  Nothing.

  It’s okay then, I said to convince myself. It’s another tunnel and it opens up once I’m past the icky squeezy part.

  I took my rucksack off and held it in my right hand. I shuddered and then ducked behind the beam. I had to put my left arm and shoulder through first, followed by my head—an idea I was not fond of—but I gritted my teeth and pushed into the hole, pulling my rucksack after me.

  On the other side I was able to stand straight away—which was good since I was almost hyperventilating. I shone the tiny light around and found myself in what looked like a skinny fissure in the rock. Rather than a tunnel, the fissure appeared to be a naturally formed, really narrow crack in the mountain. At least it afforded more than enough headroom for comfort. My pulse and breathing slowed.