“What's through those doors?”
“From what I remember, that leads to a lift that takes you to the stairs. I think the hall out there leads to the actual silo. I haven't seen that.”
He turned his attention back to the room they were in, trying to make sense of things. “How many men did Bartlett have?” he asked.
“I saw a couple dozen. There could have been others. He'd send teams out to do stuff, I think.”
A couple dozen. A couple of dozen men could mean a lot more than that if some had been in the field. “No idea where they might have gone?”
Amy shook her head, hitching her shoulders. Her mouth was stretched in a bewildered frown as she scanned the surroundings. “Some headed out to Connecticut, but not all of them.”
Hatcher stared out through the windows again. There were only three possibilities. One, they abandoned the place. But his gut told him that wasn't the case, that it didn't make sense. It also didn't fit with the camper he and Amy had found. He doubted whoever left that body there had wandered off into the desert.
The second possibility was this was all some sort of set up. But he had a hard time making sense of that one, too. If the goal was to lure them down here, it seemed an elaborate way to go about it. Still, he didn't like the vibe he was getting.
The third possibility was the most likely, that some were sent away, and everyone remaining was gathered in another area of the facility, one they'd have to find. Maybe one of the areas Amy had just described. But that presented a different situation than what he'd been hoping for. He'd expected to encounter people along the way, hopefully disabling or dispatching them as needed, the element of surprise his biggest advantage. That would have allowed him a chance to pick up some information, piece together enough to maybe have an idea of what was going on. But without the chance to do that, they were flying blind. And having everyone in one place meant facing a paramilitary unit, or parts of one, most of them likely locked-and-loaded. And ready. That math didn't look good, no matter how few of them there might be.
“This is really creeping me out,” Amy said. “Remember when you said Bartlett would likely hole up in a ghost town? That's what this feels like now. Only deep underground.”
Hatcher nodded, thinking. He looked out through the windows again, eyeing the blast zone in the far corner.
Ghost town.
“What, exactly, did Bartlett say to you? About almost killing everyone?”
Amy took a breath, eyes widening. “He looked absolutely mortified, asked me if I was crazy. Said that makeshift bomb I exploded could have killed everyone down here.”
“This place is designed to withstand a nuclear blast. You set off a homemade sterno bomb.”
“Oh, it wasn't the bomb, it was what he said was behind the wall. Something about gases like propane, and something else. Chlorine something or other.”
“Chlorine triflouride?”
“That may have been it.” She looked at him. “Why?”
Hatcher said nothing. He walked out of the room and into the rec area, made his way toward the far corner.
“What is it?” Amy said, following.
He stopped near where the blast occurred, looked at the hole in the wall, the scorching pattern, saw that it hadn't gone all the way through. He opened the nearby set of double doors, barely pausing to make sure no one was waiting on the other side. Something told him there wouldn't be.
The space was not as brightly lit as the rec hall. Shadowy walls lined with a labyrinth of piping, steel cages surrounding long-disabled mechanisms, junction boxes feeding tubes into the array that resembled some hyperbolic Celtic knot, stretching out like a root system.
He turned to his right and walked down the hall until he reached the first set of doors. They were oversized and sturdy. He tried the latch. Locked, and not budging.
“What are you thinking?” Amy said.
Hatcher shook his head, but still didn't say anything, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, and not wanting to articulate them quite yet, either. He headed back to the rec hall. Amy followed, making a few noises of exasperation.
He went over to the corner where the hole was. He inspected the wall again, touched it. He tucked his pistol into the waistband of his jeans near the small of his back and pulled on a piece of the wall around the hole's edge. Tugged at it until a chunk broke off.
“I really wish you'd let me in on this,” Amy said.
“This is drywall,” he said. “Three-quarter inch, pretty solid. But still drywall.”
“Okay? So?”
“This wall is new. There wouldn't have been dry wall down here. The walls would have been cement, maybe plaster over cinderblock. But not sheetrock. And definitely not sheetrock this new.”
“What are you saying?”
Hatcher didn't respond. He hooked both hands over an edge of the hole and pulled, three hard tugs, until another chunk broke off. He paused after an entire section had been removed, tape peeling off paint where it had covered the seam. Behind a blackened layer of pink insulation, the unfinished surface of opposing sheets of dry wall was visible, attached to metal studs. It bore burn marks and some dents, the center of it bowing a bit, but had held.
He took a step back and then lunged forward, stomping it with the bottom of his foot. The second kick broke through, three more punched out large enough pieces to see through. He knocked them out with palm thrusts until there was an opening roughly the size of a small doorway.
“What is it?” Amy said, angling to look over his shoulder.
Hatcher took a breath but said nothing. He stepped across the plane into the next room. Amy followed.
It was a large space, about half the size of the rec room. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high, making it feel like a cube. In the middle was a configuration of metal shelving arranged into concentric squares, the outermost set containing about ten propane tanks per shelf, five levels, at least six feet high. Maybe three shelves deep. At the center was a large tank about five feet in diameter, maybe twelve feet tall. The top of the tank was rimmed with canisters, each containing an array of wires that connected to a device at the crown.
“Oh my God,” Amy said. “Is that what I think it is?”
Hatcher stared at the structure for several seconds before responding. “That depends,” he said. “On whether you think it's a thermobaric bomb.”
Chapter 32
“I don't understand.” Amy stood back near the pathway Hatcher had knocked out of the wall. “Are you saying Bartlett built this?”
Hatcher kept his eyes on the bomb, scanning the various components. “Somebody sure as Hell did.”
“But why? As a weapon? How could he hope to move it?”
Hatcher shook his head. “I'm not sure why, but I seriously doubt he ever planned to move it.”
“Wait a sec,” Amy said, stepping forward. “Are you saying he was planning to detonate that down here?”
“I don't know whether he was planning on it, or just planning on being able to. But when he said you could have killed everyone in the entire complex, he wasn't kidding.”
Amy swallowed hard enough it made a gulping noise. “What do you think he's up to?”
“I have no idea. But you don't build a bomb like this without being up to something.”
“What kind of bomb did you say it was?”
“Thermobaric. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what it is.”
“Is it dangerous to be close to it?”
He shook his head. “Not unless we're breathing in leaking gas. But I doubt it. Guy like Bartlett would triple check for stuff like that. It's probably not radioactive, if that's what you mean.”
“Are you sure it's not possible he was planning on disassembling it and using it somewhere else?”
“Highly unlikely. Not a bomb like this. This thing is about as close as y
ou can get to a nuclear weapon without actually going nuclear.”
“But those look like regular propane tanks.”
“They are. He's using it as fuel. This is designed to introduce a highly combustible mixture into the air, a high pressure cloud of it, then the cloud will detonate. It creates a shock wave. The overpressure will expand rapidly. This place was built to withstand a nuclear strike, but the kind of explosion this will create is what they use to destroy places like this from the inside. Some of these containers likely store energy intensifiers that will be released as particulates, aluminum, magnesium.” Hatcher glanced around at the walls, raised his gaze to the ceiling. “The fact he mentioned chlorine triflouride means he's not messing around. Not only will it fuel the fireball, it will ignite tissue and burn through concrete, and to say it's toxic is an understatement. Facilities like this were designed to resist poison gas attacks, but the thermal blast will defeat that. I can't imagine any spot in the entire system that would be safe, even if there wasn't a total structural kill. Which would also be likely.”
“What are you saying? That he wanted to make sure there's no chance of anyone surviving?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying.”
“Can you disarm it?”
“I wouldn't even know where to begin. I wouldn't even feel all that confident with something familiar, and I've never even seen anything like this before. A terrorist could take down a skyscraper with something a tenth this size.”
“Hatcher, maybe we should just get out of here. Whatever is going on, whatever's going to happen, it can't be good.”
Hatcher let her words seep in, chewed them over. “I can't argue with that. You should make your way back to the surface, call the cops. Tell them—”
“We're not having this discussion again.”
Hatcher took in a long breath, let it out. He flirted with agreeing with her, heading back to the escape hatch and getting her to go first, then locking the hatch behind her. But she was too stubborn for that. Even if he pulled off the ruse, she wouldn't give up trying to find a way in. And she'd probably never forgive him, regardless.
“We have to find out where everyone is. Someone's down here. I'm betting a number of someones.”
“Other than the silo, the only other place anyone could be would be above the control center, where the stairs were.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, I doubt anyone's back there.” Hatcher looked at her. “What kind of stuff did you say had been moved?”
“Boxes. Crates. Blood donation bags. Mechanical things, chains and pulleys. A big old...” She paused, blinked. “Cross. Hatcher, do you think—”
“I don't know. You said this is the hall that leads to the silo?”
“According to Sahara. I didn't see it, though. I was heading in the opposite direction.”
Hatcher took a moment to think. They circled back around, through the rec room and out into the hall. A huge blast door stood across from them with a large diagram next to it indicating a set of metal grate stairs alternating back and forth to platform landings at different levels until it reached the surface. There was another blast door off to the left. The diagram indicated that was the access portal to the missile silo.
The door was huge, like something on a bank vault. But the latch moved when Hatcher yanked on it, and the heavy slab of steel swung open.
The access portal cableway, like the other halls, was a tubular corridor, almost nautical. Exposed piping rimmed the walls and ceiling like circuitry, an industrial labyrinth of cylinders ranging from narrow tubes to pipes a foot in diameter, all coated in a pale primer green. Hatcher moved through the portal toward another blast door in the distance.
He stopped a few yards from it. “Amy, I need you to go back to the control room, near the escape hatch, and wait.”
“Don't you even—”
“This isn't like that. If you want to help, if you want to contribute, I need you to hang back. I mean it.”
“You're ditching me? Seriously?”
“No, and now's not the time to argue. I know why you insisted on coming with me, and it has nothing to do with wanting to be part of the team. I get it. Being with me is a way of making sure I won't do anything stupid, won't take unnecessary risks. You think I won't do anything that would put you in jeopardy, and that way you can keep me from getting killed. I also know that the thought of me risking myself for her is like some blade twisting in your gut. But I'm really counting on you now. I need you to watch my back. If we both go in there, there's no one else to come for us if it goes wrong. If I go in alone, I still have you. I need you to do this. Please.”
“Hatcher, it's a damn good thing I love you. Because if I didn't, I'd be telling you how full of crap you are.”
“Just wait back at the control room. Watch the monitors. If something goes wrong, get out and get help.”
“You don't even know what to expect in there.”
“Which is why it's important that you be ready to call in the cavalry.”
Amy locked her eyes onto his, held them there. “I would never let you die for me, so don't you dare go off and die for her.”
“I'm not doing this for her. I mean, in a way I am, but not how you mean it.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Why, then? Guilt? I deserve to know.”
“If I told you, it would sound sappy.”
“Try me. I could use sappy about now.”
“Because if you and I are going to be happy, the only way I see it feeling right is if I think I'm worthy of it, worthy of someone like you. And if I let some woman suffer a fate she doesn't deserve because of me, I would never believe I am. Part of me would never let me enjoy what we have.”
She stared into his eyes, then pressed her mouth against his. “Like I said, it's a damn good thing I love you.”
He took her hands from his shoulders and gave them a squeeze. He backed away a few steps, watching until she turned to head in the direction they'd come. He kept watching until she went through the blast door, gave him a mournful look, then shut it behind her.
Okay, Jake. Show time.
He walked the final few yards to the silo door. It was unlocked. One tug on the latch and it opened partially with a lumbering sway, though he stopped it from going wider than he needed to fit. An odd glow throbbed from the other side. He angled his body stepped behind the door onto a solid platform connected to a metal catwalk overlooking a huge shaft. He peered over the guardrail, down into the source of the glow.
“Oh, Hell no,” he said.
Chapter 33
Amy made her way back through the rec area and into the adjacent hall, fuming. Who the Hell did he think he was? How dare he send her off like this, giving her a pat on the butt and telling her to run along to safety? She was so angry she could scream. And so worried for him every thought she had that didn't involve strangling him seemed like a prayer.
Okay, so maybe he had a point. Maybe going in there together wouldn't have given him the best odds of success. But surely her sitting back and doing nothing wasn't going to help. Watching monitors? For crying out loud, it was like something you might tell a child who would only get in the way.
She knew he was only looking out for her safety, but that only made her angrier. She didn't want to be someone he had to look out for. She wanted to pull her own weight. She wanted to be a factor.
Then again, he had been right about one thing. Her primary concern had been keeping him from doing anything stupid. She supposed she'd been too obvious about that.
The question was, what could she do about it now? There had to be a better use of her skills than staring at motionless screens.
She told herself to think, to quiet all the distracting thoughts and focus only on the useful ones. What she needed to find out, she decided, was something indicating what Bartlett was up to.
&nbs
p; She had the entire run of the place. There had to be answers here, somewhere, waiting to be found.
Files. Bartlett had to have files. Paper files or computer files, it didn't matter. She tried to recall if she'd seen filing cabinets. No, she didn't think so. Just a supply cabinet. She raised her head, stared back at the doorway to the rec area. But there had been a laptop, she remembered. If it was still there.
Quick, quiet steps, just a few, and she was back in the small conference room in the rear of the rec area. She had it in sight immediately, walked straight back to it. She flipped open the screen and angled it toward her. She stopped in mid-motion and blinked.
What the...?
The screen was a piece of solid black plastic. The device itself was hollow, and not really a device at all. More like a prop. Fake. Like something used in a play, or a model home.
Amy stared at it, eyes floating over the fake keys. Why the Hell would Bartlett have a fake laptop?
No, she thought, correcting herself. The real question was, why would Bartlett have a fake laptop in here?
She scrutinized it some more. Glossy plastic screen, drawn-on keys. She lifted it off the counter. Light, but not weightless. And, she noted, it had a power cord.
She turned it to see where the cord led. It snaked down into a hole in the counter near the wall. She set the laptop onto the counter, stepped back, and knelt down. The cord didn't terminate at an outlet. It fed into another hole, this one in the wall itself, a hole that looked like it had been drilled.
Standing, she looked down at the fake device again. Why would a phony laptop have a power cord? She twisted it to face her, adjusting the screen. She rapped her fingers against the fake keyboard. Nothing. She tapped at the solid black screen. Still nothing.
A solid black screen. Not cardboard with a sticker over it, but thick, glassy plastic. She scanned the edges. The top of the fake laptop was not a solid piece. The screen was inlaid. She pinched the top section between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed, felt the plastic move a bit, but with a springy resistance. She pressed harder and something clicked. The plastic screen popped forward, falling open.
The Angel of the Abyss Page 30