“Damn straight Jake. Damn straight!”
“Plus, I was able to print off a copy of the cave map photo I took back at Lizzie’s house. So we are all set. I’ve decided to head back up to the base right now to pull some recon of how I can sneak in and find that actual bunker. It just so happens to be in what’s called the Q-Area — where the most highly classified weapons, including nukes, were once stored.”
“Whoa! Hold on there,” responded Joe with genuine concern. “Wait until I get down there to help you out.”
“We’re under the clock,” said Jake. “I need to act alone. No offense but you’re too slow. It’s probably a matter of hours before Nero finds the cave entrance with his radar and his manpower anyway. Just trust me. Besides, the whole inner base area that Nero purchased is abandoned anyway. Not a soul around.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Joe, giving in.
“What I need from you instead is to go shopping again. There’s lots of tools and safety equipment we’re going to need. Then we can meet later tonight when you bring all the gear down. That’s when we’ll enter the bunker and try and locate the room in the report. But first, I need to establish the best route into the base without Nero and his boys noticing.”
“But what am I shopping for now?” asked Joe.
“For our spelunking trip. What else?”
32
Site of Wilhelm Van Vleet’s former homestead. Seneca Army Depot.
BASED ON HER map calculations, Anne Stanton had determined the most probable location of Wilhelm Van Vleet’s original homestead was just beyond the railroads tracks inside the Depot’s western outer perimeter fencing. Now it was a matter of finding out if any clue from the farm even remained from over two hundred years ago. Under her direction, Rousseau organized his eight security guards in a search party and for three straight hours the men trudged through mud and brush in a shoulder-to-shoulder line, desperately trying to locate any remnant of past inhabitation. But the past refused to reveal itself. The men grew agitated and sour. Even the weather refused to cooperate.
After such a gorgeous late November day with a high of sixty degrees, a line of squalls had moved eastward over the Finger Lakes showering the ground with drizzle. Soon, wind gusts kicked up to thirty miles per hour as thunderstorms approached under a heavy rain. The temperature dropped to the mid-thirties, threatening to turn the driving rain into ice. And while his minions endured the elements, Alex Nero kept warm and dry inside of his Hummer.
As night approached, the search party illuminated their target area with high-powered spotlights run by a portable generator. They outfitted themselves in cold weather gear to keep warm, donned radio-phones for communication, and snacked on power bars and coffee for energy. They inspected every log, rock, and terrain irregularity in several passes of a grid search pattern. On occasion, Rousseau rotated out an SUV patrol around the base perimeter road to ward off any troublemaking locals and to give his men a seated, heated rest.
As the rain finally turned to snow, their hard work suddenly paid off. One of the men tripped on several large stones laid out in a straight line. Clearing away dirt and brush, they revealed the corner of a stone foundation barely penetrating the earthen surface.
It was all that Stanton needed. She immediately repositioned the men two hundred yards across the field from the foundation and into a heavier wooded area. There they found a slight ravine about fifteen feet deep. Scattered down the sides of the ravine were thick, rotted, fallen oak trees of exceptional age. A trickling, two-foot wide brook flowed at the ravine’s base in a westerly direction toward Seneca Lake.
Same time. Q-Area. Seneca Army Depot.
Major Jake Tununda’s early evening reconnaissance of the Depot’s northern Q-Area had gone much smoother than he had expected. To start out, he logged onto Google Earth with his laptop and zoomed right in on the north part of the Depot. The Yale Manor B&B was merely a mile from the Q-Area. He could clearly see, in high resolution, the sparsely populated farmlands surrounding the base. Picking a spot on the map to park his vehicle was rather easy.
He chose to motor east down Yale Manor Road and then turned south along the abandoned, weed-infested railroad tracks at the northeast corner of the base. With dense woods on one side and a farmer’s tall hedgerow along the other side of the tracks, his vehicle was well hidden from any prying eyes.
Under cover of an approaching thunderstorm, with his M4 rifle slung across his chest harness and Rousseau’s Browning pistol concealed in a side pocket, he disappeared into the woods. Minutes later, he emerged from the woods and stood before the chain link outer perimeter fencing bordering the base property.
It was only at that initial entry point, along the asphalt outer perimeter patrol road beyond the fence, that he felt his presence in jeopardy. He spotted an SUV in the distance through his riflescope. Undoubtedly, it was Nero’s security team conducting a sweep. Fortunately, the patrol was too far away for them to have even noticed him. Within minutes the patrol disappeared back south of his position.
Had Jake tried to infiltrate the Depot when it was fully operational, when every conceivable weapon in the U.S. Army was housed there, he would have faced instant scrutiny from the Army. Overlapping defensive measures were designed to detect and kill him if necessary. The outer perimeter road, where he now stood, would have been patrolled 24-hours a day by jeeps mounted with .50 caliber machine guns and manned by a military police force of 250.
He now simply scaled the rusty fence and leisurely strolled through a tall grass field for about fifty feet. The grass then turned to gravel for another fifty feet where he met his next barrier.
There, at three consecutive rows of six-foot high barbed wire fencing, Jake faced his only true scare when a black and white striped Osprey swooped down on him after he startled her from her utility pole nest.
Back when the Depot was under full Army security, his same path through the grass would have taken him by hidden motion and audio detection devices triggering an immediate response from the armed guards. Once he approached he would have been illuminated by spot lights with bulletproof lenses. And that grass field he was on would have been maintained weekly to be no higher than six inches for a clear shot by the guards should anyone be crawling in. Had he even gotten past the fifty-foot wide gravel section with more crisscrossing surveillance monitors, he would have been confronted with how to cross the daunting line of three, 2,400 volt, electrified fences, topped and bottomed with coils of razor sharp concertina wire. One touch of the fence and instant death. Beyond that was yet another asphalt road patrolled with dozens more armed vehicles and MPs who shot first and identified bodies later.
Not willing to scale the three rows of barbed wire fencing this night, Jake simply clipped through the rusty links with his handy, all-purpose tool and slipped through. He rolled up each section of severed prongs back into its original position and secured them with carabiners so as not to arouse undue suspicion. He had now officially penetrated the Q-Area. And not a scratch was on him.
Inside the Q-Area sector were sixty-four igloo-type concrete bunkers resembling large grassy mounds. Arranged in five east-to-west parallel roads, they were labeled according to row and number. Jake found his target bunker with ease — the very first bunker of the very first row — A0101. It was one of the two uniquely oversized bunkers on the north side of the sector, their sole purpose being for protection of base personnel in case of nuclear attack.
The concrete 30-foot wide by 80-foot long bunker was buried under several feet of earth. Constructed under a barrel roof, the foundation of the bunker was ten times thicker than that of a typical residential home. The mound was almost completely covered except for its exposed entrance face. A set of double blast doors marked the only way to gain entry and they were large enough to drive a school bus through.
Protecting the entrance was a thick steel cage with double pad-locked gates. Fortunately for Jake, when he had arrived at bunker A0101 the locks weren’t engag
ed and the double gates were wide open. In fact, none of the security measures on any of the total five hundred nineteen igloos on base were in place, according to the Romulus Town Historian. They all were left unlocked in response to local government safety guidelines prior to selling to a private enterprise.
Had anyone even thought of stealing a nuclear weapon stored inside one of these Q-Area igloos, the unlocking of these gates would have required them to hunt down the Depot’s commander, who held one key, and the head of security with the other. Behind the gates, they would have found a 2,000-pound solid concrete block only moveable with a heavy forklift. Only then would they have access to the double steel reinforced blast doors. These doors were secured by two large locks the size of a heavyweight boxer’s glove. Had they gotten these open, an electronic alarm would have then been tripped in the base security headquarters alerting the MPs of an unauthorized intrusion. Their response would have been fast and lethal.
And if the intruders had made it inside the igloo there were two more security features awaiting them. The first was a smoke generation system triggered by the monitoring station that would have produced a thick mixture of ammonium chloride smoke. Not only would it have filled the igloo with white smoke making navigation by sight nearly impossible, but the chemicals in the smoke also caused severe vomiting. And the second measure would have been the activation of a ceiling-mounted concertina wire system. The razor-sharp wire net would have dropped and snared anyone unlucky enough to be standing beneath it.
Finding everything disengaged, just as the historian claimed, Jake shoved open one of the unlocked blast doors and proceeded inside the pitch-black bunker. Turning on a flashlight, he observed that the igloo was completely empty. He pulled a brief recon of the large inner passageway vehicle ramp that led down to the underground survival facilities. Satisfied with his interior inspection, he immediately withdrew from the bunker, closed it up, and headed back to his vehicle.
Total recon time — one hour — to get in and out of the once impenetrable Seneca Army Depot.
33
Thursday evening. Site of Boyd’s marker tree.
ALEX NERO, Anne Stanton, and Kenny Rousseau stood together near the brook, observing the continued search. With spotlights illuminating the far side slope, Nero’s men scoured the ravine for the elusive cave entrance. The ground penetrating radar equipment was also put back into use at the top of the ravine and immediately started registering positive hits of underground anomalies.
Stanton shivered inside her windbreaker, patting her gloved hands together as snow fell all around them. “It’s got to be up there somewhere. All the clues add up. We came in on the south bank, where Boyd’s cipher told us to go. It’s the same side as the marker tree, according to Van Vleet’s horseshoe story—”
“And we descended down into the ravine,” added Nero in a gritty voice. “Boyd’s directions clearly stated the cave would be on the opposite side, halfway up the slope.”
Rousseau barked out orders for the men to focus their search in the middle area of the bank. Some slipped down the muddy slope while others found good footholds to steady themselves. The men were agitated and beyond exhausted.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” suggested Stanton.
“Not on your life,” replied Nero. He didn’t even look at her.
It wasn’t until an hour later and two hundred feet further downstream that one of the men came across something unusual as he cleared brush.
“I pulled up a piece of slate and found five rotted logs over here!” he shouted.
Heads turned his way as he stepped on top of the logs to test their strength. With a crack, the man disappeared into the earth. The logs disintegrated under his weight. A split second later, he popped his head and arms out and gave a thumbs-up signal.
“I found the cave!
Cheers went up. Lightning flashed in the clouds. Thunder rumbled. And the snow grew thicker.
Nero revealed a rare smile. He turned to Stanton. “The veil between our world and the underworld has been penetrated.”
Lightning lit the sky once again. And to their north a single shotgun blast echoed through the air. It was masked immediately by another loud crack of thunder. No one’s curiosity was roused.
But a minute later, as the group scrambled over to the cave entrance, an orange flash of light lit the clouds, followed by an enormous blast that reverberated a quarter mile to their west. The trees shook as a concussive wave swept over the search party. All eyes turned toward the airfield control tower where they witnessed a huge fireball rising into the sky.
Nero snapped his fingers. He pointed to Rousseau and his newly appointed lieutenant, the Cayuga, Mr. Makowa. He cocked his head toward the explosion and the pair immediately ran off to an SUV.
Q-Area. Seneca Army Depot.
After a hearty dinner rendezvous with his uncle where they finalized their hasty plans, Jake took Joe over to Depot. He parked out of view from the main road again. There they organized their new spelunking equipment, prepared survival backpacks, and armed themselves for the task ahead. Jake arrayed his weapons as before. Additionally, he strapped a firefighter’s Halligan tool across his back. Joe lugged a sledgehammer, his deer-hunting shotgun, and he tucked away the other Browning pistol he took from Nero’s dead security agents. Without further delay, Jake lead the way back onto the Depot’s lands by following his same recon path in. He had to however, cut the outer perimeter fencing because his uncle was unable to climb over. Their mission started out smooth and both men were jacked with excitement.
Amid the high wind gusts, cracking lightning, and booming thunder they faced no security threats from Nero and his gang. Within twenty minutes, Jake stood facing bunker A0101 for the second time that night.
Suddenly, he spun around and switched off his flashlight. “Ssh! You hear that? Kill your light! Now.”
Joe followed his order, plunging the entrance area of the bunker into darkness. Both men peered out toward the access road letting their vision adjust to the night.
“Footsteps,” Jake whispered. He raised his M4 to his shoulder. “To my right, behind the bunker. Someone heading this way.” He noticed Joe quietly setting down his sledgehammer and mimicking his nephew’s move by raising his shotgun.
“When I say Now, we ID the target only. When I say Fire, we shoot to kill.”
“Gotcha,” replied Joe. His breathing became heavy.
They waited for a heart-pounding thirty seconds more as the footsteps crunched closer and closer. The wind surprisingly died down and rain transformed into snowflakes.
The footsteps stopped.
Jake quietly exhaled.
Silence for another thirty seconds.
The footsteps started again. The pace increased, now grinding the crumbling asphalt in front of the entrance. A shadowy figure appeared around the corner and approached the pair.
“Now!” shouted Jake. He lit the target.
Big brown eyes stared back at them.
The barrel of Joe’s shotgun wavered. Lightning flashed.
“Lower your—” Jake ordered.
Too late. Joe pulled the trigger. A shotgun blast ripped from the barrel. The report intermixed precisely with the sound of thunder.
Never flinching from the wild slug that zipped by its head, there stood in defiance, a majestic, broad-chested, white-furred buck. More thunder rumbled overhead as if to accentuate the presence of such a noble creature. Heavy white snowflakes fell around him as he stared back at the two men. His large brown eyes glowed in Jake’s flashlight beam. The master of the herd snorted and raised his snout. His pink nose sniffed the air.
Jake counted ten points on the antlers. His flashlight shook. Joe took several deep breaths. Realizing the significance of the white buck’s appearance, each man stood mesmerized. The buck raised its front hoof and stomped three times and snorted again. He then turned and simply walked away.
As the deer slowly disappeared, Jake’s knees became
weak. “The ghost buck,” he stated. His dream had come true. But was its appearance some sort of omen or a sign of good?
Joe seemed to answer his thoughts. “They say that those who rest their eyes on the white ghost buck will have magnificence bestowed upon them. Oh Great Spirit, I’m glad I missed.”
Regaining his composure, Jake turned to the entrance blast doors and grasped one of the handles. “Come on. Let’s get inside. Your shotgun blast may have roused Nero’s troops.” He slid the door open with a heavy grunt. The creak of rusted metal made a high-pitched squeal as snow swirled inside the black void.
The men grabbed their gear, with Joe squeezing inside first. Jake slowly closed the door behind them, but suddenly he heard and then felt a chest-rumbling sound from outside, off in the distance. It was reminiscent of battlefield artillery fire. More thunder? He cocked his head. Or was that the famous Seneca Drums he had just heard? He couldn’t decide. Too many weird things were happening. He just needed to keep moving. Shrugging the sound off, he shut the door and turned to face the dense black interior of the bunker.
The pair became engulfed in a whirl of cool, stale air as their flashlight beams pierced the cavernous, empty concrete room. Stretching eighty feet to a great, cracked semi-circle of concrete forming the back wall, they lowered their beams to the floor to find the vehicle ramp angling down.
“Follow me,” directed Jake. His voice boomed through the chamber as he led the way across the empty expanse and over to the entrance of the descending ramp. He pointed his flashlight down the concrete plane, showing his uncle how it spiraled around a corner. “This ramp is like one you’ll find in a parking garage. We take it down six flights to the lowest level. Pace yourself.”
Troop E Romulus Station.
Rae sat alone in her quiet office, awaiting yet another call from her superiors. An evidence envelope sat empty on her desk, as she twirled the Cranberry Marsh Indian broach between her fingertips. She couldn’t help but wonder how such a small piece of jewelry had caused so much havoc in recent days. Deep in thought, she paid no attention to another flash of lightning outside her office window.
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