by Randy Moffat
Wong grinned.
“OK . . . Boss. Physical abuse isn’t required. Not on a cracker-jack executive officer like me! Anglewood is a former military warehouse that started back in WWII.”
“A warehouse?” Bear asked incredulously. “You’re taking me to a warehouse?”
Wong nodded secretively—the semblance to the smile on certain images of the contemplative Buddha very striking at the moment.
Bear shook his head.
“That’s it? You’re an alimentary pore . . .” He said without real rancor, his tone much like people saying, ‘I think it may rain.’
Wong absorbed the verbal blow and giggled. Bear liked to hear the sound, so girlish and incongruous coming from a salted Naval officer. They lapsed back into a companionable silence of tired driving. Bear’s head had resumed bouncing his chin off his chest. Wong switched to whistling old show tunes.
He had reached ‘Everything’s Good in America . . .” timed to the turns in the winding two-lane state road when he caught a glimpse of half overgrown sign and spun the wheel in an abrupt turn that vaporized a couple millimeters of tire. The smell of burning rubber and screech of brakes mingled instantly with a short stretch of bad tarmac mixed with bad dirt and equally bad holes to wake them both up nicely, Bear’s finger nails embedded in the dash. Wong turned ninety degrees in cloud of dust and they jounced along parallel to a tornado fence line. The fencing that raced past outside windows turning rapidly opaque with dirt bore standard ‘US Government Property’ signs—but their once jaunty red and blue colors were faded and corroded. Two of the shields hung askew and a third had been hit by a shotgun blast in the distant past giving it a bad case of rusty acne. The signs spoke eloquently of having been put up forty or fifty years before and never maintained. Lack of maintenance went for the rest of the place too—ancient barbed wire strands inside the tornado fence were water rotted brown and when Wong suddenly slewed to a halt by a tiny gatehouse the shack was a mass of peeling paint and missing two out of its four panes of glass.
By the dilapidated hut an old man in a khaki security guard uniform was lolling with his hat over his eyes, dozing in a John Deere green all-purpose vehicle blocking the entrance through the ancient wire. He looked of an age with the oxidization on the metal. He lifted the hat with a finger to stare at them balefully and then stood up with the slow reluctance of age, joints audibly popping. Both Bear and Wong got out stretching luxuriously themselves.
“Mr. Craig?” Wong called to the man. The guard’s dirty white and brown locks hung to his shoulders and he wore an apparently accidental straggle of salt and pepper beard.
“S’ right.” The old man replied. “You Commander Wong?”
“Yes. We spoke on the phone.”
“How come you ain’t in uniform?” The shaggy geezer sounded a little insulted.
Wong laughed at the irony and pulled out his military ID and gave it to Craig who peered at it suspiciously, turning it over twice and peering at the pictures on both sides and then at Wong’s face for careful comparison. Craig’s middle name was apparently suspicion.
“I’m under cover.” Wong said melodramatically.
Craig grunted and somewhat reluctantly handed back the chip card. Oddly Wong’s stab at humor seemed to settle his mind. Chinese spies never try to be funny.
“Is he OK?” He jerked his head at Bear.
“We’re not sure, the vote is still out, but he is my boss.”
Craig nodded—apparently one digital ID was enough thrills for the old timer who probably had not seen an actual military card in a couple decades.
“Can we see the place?” Wong asked.
Craig shrugged.
“There’s only me and two other guys who cover other shifts guarding the joint since those Base Closure assholes in congress closed the place. I gotta lock up the gate to take you inside the hole.”
Bear raised an eyebrow at the word ‘hole’ but neither of he nor Wong made a verbal reply so after a moment of expectant silence between them Craig abruptly slid the gate shut and slapped a big padlock on it forcing Wong and Bear to step hastily across its track to narrowly miss having their heels sliced off.
Not one for unnecessary talking Craig gestured at seats in the small six-wheeled vehicle bearing the whimsical name ‘Gator’ and leaping into the driver’s seat hit the accelerator before their buttocks had actually made contact with the torn and duct-taped vinyl cushions. They jolted up the badly decayed macadam Wong facing backwards and hanging on for dear life with both hands spread wide and gripping the rails during tight turns so as not to be thrown bodily off. Presumably Craig would have left him behind as thoughtless road kill.
Luckily the trip was short and within a couple of minutes they came in sight of a curious wedge shaped concrete and glass structure jutting out at the base of a cliff with a large loading dock on as a central feature and mounded earth on top of most of the roof—it was utilitarian yet oddly attractive like an ad from ‘Better Underground Homes and Gardens.’ There was something of an air of seventies chic. They pulled to a dust-filled halt and climbed up a set of metal steps to the dock level, walking through a door and into a kind of half lit atrium, the light dim through the very dirty skylight with dead leaves showing through the glass—last cleaned when Carter was running for president.
Craig gave a casual ‘follow me’ sign while Bear exchanged an amused glance with Wong with a short though loquacious shrug. They walked through a set of doors and suddenly there was a sense of space though only darkness could be seen. Craig threw lots of switches somewhere off to the right, and Bear suppressed a gasp. What he saw in the dim lighting that sprang up was underground tunnels that had no apparent end—crudely carved out to the native limestone apparently in squares with each corner being left in place to form pillars that held up the roof. The distant rumble of big fans could be heard winding up now and a faint breeze sprang up that grew in strength until it reached the point Bear could feel it blowing on the fine hairs of his forearms.
“C’mon.” Craig said with hallmark succinctness.
They walked along the corridor they faced and passed room after room for five minutes without stopping. Many of the rooms were empty, but others held ghostly shapes shrouded in what looked like ancient parachutes. Still others held cabinets, lockers, shelves, or simple crates and boxes sitting on pallets. The air was cool, but not cold. It was not as damp as most underground caves Bear had been in. Bear commented on it.
Craig grunted abruptly making what for him, was a long reply.
“Place was dug out last century in the thirties and forties for the rock. The government leased it later and used it to warehouse foodstuffs in the forties during the war. Then back in the 50’s they started to use the place for other things and installed an ammonia-to-brine dehumidification system to keep the moisture down. It holds the place to a humidity level of around 42 percent in the underground rooms which is a level that reduces mold and rust but still keeps paper and stuff supple and not totally dried out. The system still works pretty well. They use bleed heat from the dehumidification process to help maintain the temperature underground between 65 and 72 degrees . . .” He cocked an eyebrow at them as though talking to high school freshmen. “That’s Fahrenheit, not fucking Celsius” He said unnecessarily since 72 degrees C would almost have melted Phosphorus.
“Why worry about paper?” Bear asked, genuinely curious.
Craig looked at him with pity like a learned man talking to an idiot or an evangelical.
“Anglewood cave was one of the Emergency Records Depositories for the government for most of fifty years . . . back when paper was big. You get way back in these caves you will find copies of all kinds of written material like the instruction manuals for theF-105 Thunder chief, maintenance schedules for a deuce and half truck, records of congressional actions, State Department treat
ies—hell they probably got my IRS tax returns from 1975 back in there for all I know.”
Bear shook his head in amazement and realized they had been walking for ten minutes more and had reached no end and nothing that even suggested one existed.
“How big is this place?” His voice echoed back, mocking the question.
Craig laughed oddly, like a boy who had the key to the neighborhood tree-house.
“Let me show you.”
They turned and backtracked for three minutes and Craig led them sideways to their previous course through about five chambers and there on the floor of a sixth was a model of the entire complex. The model came from a time that obviously predated computers by a couple decades, where colored wooden blocks represented individual storage rooms. The whole looked like some demented child’s toy town with roads representing main passage ways and cross corridors—a moderate city beneath the earth.
“More than 60 acres underground just in the two main complexes and there are lots of other tunnels from limestone mining days that have never been used at all since the government took over. Most of them are not properly rigged for lights and such but they go on for miles. A few have even caved in though most are still fine . . . the ceilings in the main areas are reinforced for safety though so they won’t fall anytime soon.” He pointed up at some big bolts hanging overhead like artificial stalactites with metal plates on them kissing the ceiling’s stone and huge hexagonal nuts torqued tight on the threading.
Bear whistled in appreciation though whether in gratitude for the ceilings not falling on his head or the sheer size of the place was open to interpretation.
Craig grunted; a sound which when used it was open to broad interpretation.
They walked out and past some more of the silk covered inscrutable objects.
“These aren’t boxes of records or paper. What are these things under the covers?” Bear asked conversationally.
Craig glanced where he was looking.
He grunted yet again. In this cavern it was possible to think of him as an actual cave man who pre dated language and communicated primarily through guttural sounds.
Craig lifted up one of the covers and revealed what appeared to be a heavy metal lathe.
“This here is a 105 Millimeter shell casing lathe.” Craig explained scratching his head. “Back in the 60s and 70s they realized that war time production capabilities that the country had paid gobs of money for in the forties and fifties was going away along with the machinery to make it because of insufficient demand or because the companies that made it lost their business to some oriental agency who undercut their price by paying their labor a nickel an hour. The Ordnance Corps Readiness Program set up to store lots of equipment here as back up capacity for the next war when they might not have the lead in time to ramp up facilities and equipment before the reds were shopping at the 7-11 across the street. Production equipment was put in here so they could break it out fast. ‘Course they rolled it over as the years went on too—got rid of totally outdated shit and brought in more current stuff. Over the years they had to maintain it too so there is a big machine shop here that one of the contractors who ran the place set up during the 70s and used to keep the strategic reserve equipment in tip top shape.” The cave man shook his head. “It’s going to rack and ruin now, but they greased most stuff up pretty good before the shutdown and a lot of it is still OK.”
Craig looked at Bear and he looked back his face a mixture half amusement and half amazement that such a place even existed without most of the world having the faintest idea.
“Holy freeholee!” Was all Bear could think to say.
“Yeah! Except this hole ain’t never been free.” Craig agreed. “They used to have five, maybe six thousand pieces of machinery in here. Some rotated in, more of it they called obsolete and it just went out. I don’t rightly know how much is left—around half the peak years I think.” He shook his head. “I really hated to see it go when they closed the doors into caretaker status just before the turn of the Century.” A distant and fading memory retained by only a few very old men and women clearly hung in his mind’s eye and came out thorough what passed for his wistful voice.
“How long you been here?” Bear asked.
“Since the late 70’s . . . VA got me the job after I got shot up in Vietnam and just couldn’t see myself working no place else.”
Craig met his eyes almost defiantly at having spent a life here—his irises the color of bright blue pride in a Missouri summer sky.
Bear nodded—a faint sympathetic twitch for a fellow worker whose job was only half salary and the other half calling.
Idly he asked.
“What are these covers on the machines . . . that look like parachutes?”
“Those are . . . parachutes.” Craig said dryly and grunted repeatedly through what was clearly a laugh buried so deep in his throat it couldn’t get out. The sound of an experienced Neanderthal tour guide sticking it to the ignorant tourist.
Bear cleared his throat to keep from laughing at Craig’s laugh.
“Are there any living quarters in here?” Bear asked.
Craig looked at him and grunted, then waved at them to follow him.
They shuffled off . . . Clan of the Cave . . . Bear thought tritely.
Bear and Wong were in a quiet corner of the Kansas City airport waiting on a redeye flight. The passenger seats in the waiting areas were typical instruments of torture. The metal seats slowly and painfully crushing their buttocks flat through paper thin cushions. He and Wong crouched with their heads together and their voices just above a whisper. Wong’s umbilical of his power cord charging the cell in his hand plugged into the sole outlet for a hundred meters in either direction. He shook his head.
“When are airports going to get the message and put in a socket every two feet?”
“Never. They are looking for a way to make them pay.” Bear started speaking as if Wong had hit a play button on his verbal I-pod. “You hit a home run on this one XO! Anglewood has descent enough access to the rail, air, and road networks as well as having a ready-made machine shop and god knows what other equipment available just inside the cave at our fingertips. Nice work on finding it Number One! Ain’t it great to live in a country where the government forgets entire giant installations buried in holes under the Mississippi mud?”
“Not exactly under the mud . . .”
“No.” Bear agreed. “Close enough for government work though . . . I imagine if the water goes right in the front door during the five hundred year flood. There is basically only bottom land between the big muddy and the base of those cliffs.”
Wong nodded; pleased his logic was vindicated. He read correctly the writing on the bathroom wall of Bear’s face, and pulled up his phone ready to type notes.
“One—”Bear peeled a finger off his fist. “Get with our new lawyer . . . get us rights to that place and lock it in! See O’Hara . . . she knows the name of our new ambulance chaser . . . and .see to it that we can do whatever the hell we want . . . . .”
He peeled another finger
“Two—Those quarters were like a bad 1950’s motel. I want them improved. I do not know who will want to bring in visitors—so the hookers have to reach the rooms without passing through the secure part of the complex. Make them put the Holiday inn suites look sick—get a decorator to make them homey. While you are at it look at a recreation room with weights, treadmill, Nautilus, etcetera . . . at least two conference rooms . . . No! Make that three. Two rooms inside the classified area for the team to use and a third one out where the guests can go so we can meet with outsiders. And throw in some kind of outdoor area where folks can R&R in sunshine out of the cave—it might get old being in the dark all the time.”
“I know that feeling . . . especially since I joined this outfit . . . . . . “ Won
g said caustically He smiled, “Like a patio?”
Bear poked his lips out and nodded.
“Sure . . . with an entertainment deck and a tall privacy fence for nude sunbathing; sauna . . . that kind of thing . . .” Bear said a little impatiently. “While you are at it put a Jacuzzi into my quarters, right beside my bed so I can roll over in the morning and take a dip without standing up . . .”
Wong laughed.
Bear looked at him hard.
“I’m not bullshitting you.”
Wong laughed again but without as much conviction.
“I want it full size.” He painted the picture with his hands.” I want one that can shoot bubbles up my ass at forty miles an hour.”
Wong’s smile disappeared.
“You’re kidding . . .” He said tentatively.
Bear said looking at him fiercely.
“You think I’m KIDDING?” He barked and then he laughed and let go of the joke. “OK. Of course I’m kidding you idiot. Nice to see my dickhead deputy rotating on his own chuckle spit for once.”
Wong snorted and then smiled at himself.
Bear extended his next finger.
“Contract for 3 square meals a day with capability to do midnight snacks and sandwiches at will by anyone who is working round the clock. Make it really great food too, OK? I’m dammed if I want to lose one of our brainiacs because they hate the chow here!”
Finger.
“Four—Electricians and plenty of them . . . some of the wiring looks like it was personally installed by Edison or Westinghouse.”
Finger.
“Five—Internet and other communications—Fast finger.
“Six—Get a list of the equipment stored in those caves and send it to O’Hara so she can add it to her lists of stuff that she can get her hands on for the team . . . who knows what’ll be useful once we have momentum and get the whole team in there?
He gave Wong the finger.
“Seven—Get O’Hara and yourself some help in administering this whole mess. You need a dogs-body . . . get a good Non-Commissioned Officer from someplace who is looking around for adventure, hates sleep and has a maxed out security clearance.”