At length Sergeant Schiller waved to him. “Colonel Walling, the general will see you now.”
Inhaling deeply, Walling walked to the front of Angriff’s desk and saluted. The general lifted his left eyebrow, as if sensing something wrong, and returned the salute.
“What is it, Colonel? I’m very busy right now.”
Walling licked his lips. “Sir, does your electro-glass work yet? Can you make it opaque?”
“What?” Angriff’s expression was a mixture of anxiety and what-the-hell.
“Please, sir, just trust me on this. If your glass works, I think we need privacy.”
“Very well.” Angriff pushed the button and the glass turned murky. Images on the other side became vague blobs of color. The door slid closed. He reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers. “All right, Colonel, out with it. What’s wrong? Tell me it’s not the generators again.”
“No, it’s not the generators. I don’t really know how to put this, General—”
“The only way to say it is to say it.”
“Sir, half an hour ago Colonel Friedenthall contacted me about a personnel matter. He had just cleared an Abrams commander for duty, and he made me aware of a situation that concerns you personally.”
“Which is?”
There was no getting around it. Walling had to plow forward and get it over with. “Your oldest daughter, sir. She was named Morgan, correct?”
Angriff’s face drained of color. “You’d better have a damned good reason for bringing up my family, mister.” His voice quavered and his eyes burned with anger.
Walling worried the general might hit him. “Sir, I would not ask if it wasn’t important. Your daughter’s name was Morgan, correct?”
“My oldest, yes.” Angriff’s teeth clenched.
“And she was an Abrams commander in Iraq and Syria?”
“She was.”
“And…” Walling paused; he had come to the hardest part. “…when her tank was hit, it exploded and her remains were virtually cremated. Is that correct, sir?”
“It is.”
“And they were too damaged for positive identification. Is that also correct, sir?”
Angriff stood and leaned forward on his knuckles, until Walling could smell the cigar he had finished more than an hour before. “Colonel, if there is a point you’d better get to it.”
“Sir, I want you to brace yourself.”
“I’m braced, damn it! Why the hell are you asking me this?”
Despite the damping effect the glass had on sound when it was opaque, Walling knew Angriff’s yelling could be heard by everybody in Central Command. They would all stop and stare up at the Crystal Palace. Nick the A in action. It was instructive for all of them.
“Sir, it’s your daughter Morgan. It appears she didn’t die in Syria. She’s alive, sir, and she’s part of this brigade.”
If Walling had smacked him with a crowbar, Angriff could not have looked more stunned. He leaned back, uncomprehending, and sat down without realizing it.
“Morgan, alive?” he said in a low voice. “That’s impossible. There’s been a mistake.”
“No mistake, General. She’s waiting outside Central Command. I told her the CO wanted to see her immediately, even before she saw her husband, but I did not tell her that you were the CO. I felt it best that you do it, sir.”
“Husband?” Angriff’s shoulders slumped and he deflated. For the briefest moment his mind had let him hope for a miracle. “It’s not the same Morgan, Colonel. There’s been a mix-up. My daughter wasn’t married.”
“Apparently she was, sir. She said they kept it secret.”
“Why would she do that?”
“So they could both join the brigade. She said if you had known any of this you would have stopped her and she would have lost her husband.”
“Where is she?”
“In the hallway outside, sir, by the elevators.”
Angriff was around his desk, through the clutter of the surrounding office platform, and halfway down the ramp before Walling could move. He followed, and when Sergeant Schiller spread his hands in a what’s-going-on gesture, he shrugged.
“Please God, please God,” Angriff whispered as he took long strides down the ramp. He stumbled once, grabbed the handrail, and sped up. Bewildered personnel saluted and glanced at each other when he did not notice.
Walling trailed behind. Many more people crowded the hallway than the previous day, saluting Angriff as he passed. Angriff didn’t seem to see them, either, looking desperately around through the crowd. His gaze froze on the slim blond woman fifty feet away, across and on the other side of the wall. She faced the other direction, but his face softened.
Pushing forward, he closed within feet of her before she noticed him. Her gaze fastened on the five stars on his collar and she came to rigid attention, giving a sharp salute. Only then did her eyes creep up from the barrel chest at her eye level to the craggy jaw line above the collar, then to the face and the moist eyes filled with tears. It took a full three seconds.
“Daddy?” she said.
Chapter 21
Burrow, burrow, down and deep,
Burrow, burrow, gnash and weep.
Deep beneath the granite heap,
Deep beneath the ground we sleep.
Old German children’s rhyme
June 19th, 1202 hours
Terry Bettison placed his right thumb on the elevator’s security pad and waited for identification. Overtime had three restricted access elevators, but those three were equipped with high-security technology and Bettison knew the protocols better than anyone else because fifty-nine years ago, he wrote them. More importantly, he also knew the security bypasses, information known only to a select few others.
His eyes itched, a common hangover effect from Long Sleep, and he leaned against the elevator wall to offset mild vertigo. But time was of the essence and he could not afford the standard six or eight hour stand-down after waking up. More than a full day had passed since activation, but Bettison had taken longer than average to regain consciousness. Although he hated the greasy hair and beard, and the awful metallic taste left over from the cryogenic storage chemicals, he ignored his discomfort and pressed on with his mission.
Less than one hundred people had access to the entire base, and as Chief of Security Bettison topped the list. But soon his duties would make disappearing for more than a bathroom break noticeable, so finishing his own mission before then was critical. Only one other person in the entire base knew of that mission, because that person’s mission mirrored his. Neither knew the identity of the other.
Once his identity had been authenticated, Bettison pushed the lowest button in the left-hand column, a yellow button labeled SUB FLOOR 11 AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Located deep underground, SF 11 had originally been intended as a storage area for non-essential items and a potential area for growth if more space became needed. As construction on the base progressed, however, it turned into a dumping spot for all kinds of things that seemed too valuable to throw away but which served no immediate purpose, such as the two warehouses filled with riding tack. Emergency access tunnels leading to the hydroelectric generators, reactors, and water pumps could also be reached from SF 11.
Bettison’s thoughts turned to another passage, hidden and secret, a shaft leading even further underground and known only to him and his unknown counterpart. During construction he’d followed the shaft all the way to its end. The memory made him shudder.
The elevator doors opened into a wide, sparsely-lit corridor running in both directions, with another branch tunnel directly ahead. He looked both ways before exiting to be certain he was alone. Discovery itself presented no problem, but if someone else roamed the hallway, he could not complete his time-sensitive mission.
On sub-level 11, no security cameras monitored the floors — deliberately. His mission formed part of the base’s DNA, the planning dated from the first conception of Operation Overtime, bu
t prying eyes could still jeopardize everything he had worked for. Anxious and excited, he walked down the long central corridor to his right.
Despite long familiarity with the area, Long Sleep hangover made it hard to concentrate and he paused several times to get his bearings. Unlike most people, whose memories fade with time while imagination fills in the gaps, Bettison had been trained by the FBI never to forget details. However, far more miscellaneous stuff crowded Sub-Floor 11 than before he went cold, and it took him a while to get oriented.
It took him twenty minutes to find the right room, and in it nothing had changed. The clock sat right where he’d left it all those years before, with the hands pointing to straight-up twelve, meaning his counterpart had not already completed the mission. Bettison had always assumed it would fall on him, since he was in the first wave of wakeups along with the highest-ranking officers and essential personnel.
Moving across the storeroom, he opened the large metal cabinet against the far wall. Stepping inside, he closed the doors, knelt in the darkness, and felt around for the pressure lever in the right rear corner. When he pushed down with his right thumb, a two-inch square switch lit up in the cabinet’s rear wall. This he depressed with his left thumb while maintaining pressure with his right.
A light flickered on, outlining a doorway in the rear of the cabinet, five feet tall and three feet wide. Bettison pushed and it swung inward with a faint squeal. A short crawlspace, lit by blue LEDs, ended in a square opening in the floor. Once there, he looked down. A shaft disappeared downward, with a ring ladder down one side and the same blue lighting. That was the part Bettison had been dreading. He hated ladders. But he climbed down.
Sweat matted his armpits despite the chill air inside the shaft. Eighty feet below, he found a recess in the side and stopped, although the ladder kept going down into places deep and dark. Bettison knew it led a long way down, and then a long way out. But he only wanted to finish the job and get back upstairs. The recess measured four inches square and he opened it by pulling a tiny metal handle. In the semi-darkness it was impossible to spot unless you were looking for it.
Bettison flipped a red toggle switch, identical to an electric breaker, from left to right, closed the panel, and started his ascent. Mission accomplished. On the way back to the elevator he stopped and adjusted the hands of the alarm clock to read six o’clock. Whoever his mysterious fellow traveler might be, he owed Bettison a huge debt for not having to endure the nightmare of the shaft.
Chapter 22
Nothing great was achieved without risk.
Machiavelli, “The Prince”
June 19th, 1549 hours
“I’m too old for this,” Norm Fleming said. “Are you sure I’m not dead and this is hell? I feel terrible.”
An hour before Angriff might have sympathized with his old friend and maybe even agreed. But the shock from regaining Morgan had not yet worn off, and he knew sooner or later the shock would be replaced by anger. For the moment, however, he tried to stop grinning like a damned fool.
“It ain’t hell, Norm, although you do look like it. You’ve just got a really Long Sleep hangover. What can we get you? Sergeant Schiller’s brewing some more coffee.”
“Maybe when my stomach settles. For now some water would be fine.”
Schiller brought two cups of coffee anyway, and water for them both. He also brought Fleming two of the pink tablets that were supposed to help with Long Sleep hangover. While giving him a minute to rehydrate and collect his thoughts, Angriff wondered what to divulge first — his unbelievably happy news or his growing misgivings about the whole project. He settled on something neutral.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” he said.
“This was your idea, not mine.” Fleming drained his glass and poured more from the metal carafe. “I left an important command for this.”
“That’s right, I forgot that I dragged you out of Paradise. Centipedes, fleas, and puff adders, every man’s concept of Heaven.”
“You didn’t say that when it was your command.”
“That’s because I like that kind of stuff,” Angriff said. “But we both know that you don’t, so don’t pretend that you do.”
Fleming smiled, but that faded. “Something odd happened when I was climbing out of my CHILSS. One of the hand railings from a deck above mine fell and missed my head by inches. A little closer and you’d be looking for a new S3.”
“How heavy?”
“Forty or fifty pounds.”
“That could have killed you.”
“I know. I wouldn’t have liked that.”
“No.” Angriff rubbed the point of his chin the way he did when thinking. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. How does a railing just come loose?”
“Shoddy construction?”
“Somehow I doubt that. Steeple was in on this from the ground floor and while I never much cared for the man, one thing he was not was sloppy. You knew him better than I did. Of course, you were a better ass-kisser.”
“The only ass I kissed was female.”
“Doesn’t that describe Steeple?”
Fleming stared at his friend, as if trying to convey with his face his total lack of interest in trading quips.
“All right, I think we agree that Steeple was a careful man, he would not put up with shitty work, and that everything he did had a purpose. But you know, looking back now I don’t trust a damn thing he told me. So I want our engineers finding out what happened with that rod. If it was an accident, I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“And if it wasn’t?” Fleming said.
“Then we have a big problem.”
“I have a feeling there’s a lot about this place we don’t know yet.”
“Since you brought it up, that reminds me of something else you don’t know, and in this case it’s kind of amazing.”
“Oh? I can’t remember the last time I was amazed,” Fleming said. “Can it wait until I’ve had a nap?”
“No. Now, get ready.” Angriff buzzed for Schiller. “Bring her in, Sergeant. I want you to meet one our officers, Norm, and afterward I want you to go get squared away.”
“You’re the boss.”
Schiller came in within seconds, followed by a short blonde lieutenant. She snapped to attention and offered a sharp salute. Fleming blinked and sat there, unsure of what to do or say. At last, he turned to Angriff and put out his hands in a what-the-hell gesture.
“Lieutenant General Fleming, I’m sure you remember my daughter Morgan?”
“Morgan?” But Norm Fleming did not stay flummoxed for long, even when faced with the impossible. He returned her salute. “Should I point out that you’re dead? I was a pallbearer.”
She relaxed into at ease and tried to convey an apology with her smile. “Hi, Uncle Norm.”
Joe Randall was fucked. The CO wanted to see him on the double, but not the rest of his team, not Plotz, Arnold, or Carlos, just him, which meant things were about to go from really good to really bad in a hurry. So when Sergeant Schiller showed up to escort him to a meeting with the CO, he followed like a condemned man being led to his execution. They boarded an Emvee and Randall could feel Alpha Charlie heading right for him.
Schiller drove and Randall tried to pry loose some intel. They knew each other from their shared wakeup tour and had become friends. Schiller was a likeable guy, and when you’re stuck underground in more than seven hundred miles of tunnels, rooms, and giant chambers, with only twenty other people around, loneliness tended to blur the lines of separation between officers and enlisted personnel.
“Any chance we could stop for a sandwich, J.C.?”
“Captain, we don’t have sandwiches yet. Just PSBs, like we’ve had all along.”
“Fine, let’s stop for a PSB.”
Schiller half-smiled, and Randall had the feeling the Sergeant knew why the CO wanted to see him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
“What about a drink? I’m buy
ing.”
“Sorry, sir. No Officer’s Club yet.”
“Right. Look, I’ve never met a sergeant yet who didn’t know more about what was really going on than anybody else in the unit and I have a feeling that’s doubly true for you. So be honest with me. How fucked am I?”
Schiller looked at him like he would a favorite child who was on his way to a spanking. “I wouldn’t know, sir, I’m just a sergeant.”
Schiller came out of the door and motioned him to enter. As Randall slipped past him, Schiller whispered, “Good luck, sir.”
Angriff stood with his back to the door, staring through his office glass out the huge observation window facing eastward from the mountainside, an unlit cigar stuck in his right jaw. Over Angriff’s shoulder, Randall could see across the broad valley below all the way to the mountains across the valley, some seven miles distant. The panorama was spectacular as the setting sun lit the desert in reds and yellows, and far overhead a prairie falcon soared on the hot winds.
Randall chanced a glance to his right, where a small blonde lieutenant stood at rigid attention: Tank Girl herself. His heartbeat sped up and he tried to signal her, but she did not move, eyes fixed rigidly ahead, not even blinking. In the excitement of seeing her again, he forgot everything else.
But then his brain filled with the memory of her naked in the shower. He remembered where he was and knew why the CO had sent for him. He came to ramrod-straight attention, and without warning the glass around them turned gray, blotting out everything beyond the office.
Oh, shit.
Angriff spoke without turning around. “Captain Randall, I’m told that you are our best Comanche pilot, both as commander and tactician. So good, in fact, you don’t even have a backup crew to share your aircraft with. I hope for your sake that’s true.” He turned around and Randall got the full force of Nick the A’s legendary glare. “Because I’ve got a long memory, and if you aren’t the hotshot everybody says you are, then you’re just a fuckup, and my quota for fuckups is full. Is that understood?”
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