Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (7 page)

To her amazement, Liz realized her body had activated its natural fight or flight response.

"You have experience in dealing with the type of influences personnel here have to deal with," he went on, not noticing her change in demeanor.

"Well, sir," she managed to keep her voice calm and even, "that’s not entirely true. If what I’ve read in the reports is correct then no one has ever had to deal with, well, the, um, things that go on here."

Borman looked at her with narrow, penetrating eyes. "Those reports are correct. Don’t ever make the mistake of taking them lightly."

Given that her heart raced in one continual
thump-thump-thump,
Liz realized she would never dare take this place lightly.

The elevator doors slammed shut and the compartment went dark … until her eyes adjusted to the light from a solitary red bulb. The car descended into the bowels of the Hell Hole. Chains rattled and pulleys squeaked, the car vibrated, and she felt certain the general could hear the heavy pounding of her heart.

With each passing sublevel Liz’s anxiety built.

Sublevel 2 …

I am in control. There is nothing to fear here.

Sublevel 3 …

The reports must be exaggerated … or at least speculative.

Sublevel 4 …

This is my base now … I own it! I will not let it own me!

Their descent came to a stop with a harsh
clang.
The doors opened and a burst of bright light rushed in. Liz shielded her eyes for a moment.

"Welcome to sublevel 5, Colonel." General Borman extended his arm to shuttle her out. "As I was saying," he paused, thought, then asked, "Thunder? What is that?"

"My father had some Comanche. At least, I think that's where it comes from."

"Interesting."

These halls were smaller, more compact than the floors above, but the background noise remained and, if anything, grew more intense, although that might have been her imagination again, adding to a feeling of oppression and dread, as if this high-tech maze was in fact the Minotaur's labyrinth

"As I was saying, you have something the previous commanders did not. You have the discipline—the mental discipline—to keep this complex under control. You are less likely to be …" he searched for the right words. "You are less likely to be
compromised
by the environment here."

She swallowed hard.

Soldiers roamed sublevel 5. They stood stiff as the general passed. He took no notice of them and just kept talking as if they were no more than fixtures on the wall.

"I agree, Colonel, that you are not prepared to command a traditional military installation. But for here you are the perfect fit. You can constantly evaluate the personnel, something Haas couldn’t do. Hell, he couldn’t prevent his own …" Borman's authoritarian boom wavered and he spoke the word "… deterioration" in a subdued voice.

They came to the end of the main corridor and a steel door watched by a sentry armed with an M16. General Borman showed his pass to the soldier. The sentry glared at Liz, who realized she needed to do the same.

After flashing her security badge, the guard opened the door for them.

They walked down an even tighter corridor to yet another heavy security door. As they moved, Liz took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an attempt to find some kind of calm. When she could not quite manage

'calm" she reached for resolve and mustered just enough inner strength to keep her heart from beating right out of her chest.

General Borman told her, "You see, over the last twenty years we’ve come to believe that the best defense against these … these …
influences
is a well-ordered, disciplined mind that can maintain strong concentration and focus."

"Yes, I’ve seen that. I’ve also noticed that the garrison here is not what I would have expected."

"And that would be?"

"Rangers. Special Ops forces, or something similar."

"Yes, the guards here are primarily from military police regiments. Our Special Ops forces are trained to think on their feet; to be creative problem solvers. They are deadly because they outfight and outthink the enemy."

Liz finished for the general, "But the less thinking here, the better. Right?"

He nodded and slipped a special key card into the security device at the door. There was a loud buzz and a heavy bolt retracted.

"Don’t get me wrong; these are some of the finest soldiers in the armed forces," he said. "But they are also the most focused."

She thought
robots.

Liz followed General Harold Borman into the Vault Security Station. The two soldiers on duty inside stood at perfect attention, but Liz barely saw the men. Instead, she looked past them, beyond the windows opposite the two control consoles, beyond the security door between those consoles.

Liz gazed in at the ominous vault door in its perfectly white room; the door marking the separation between the upper levels and the lower levels, all the way down to sublevel 8.

General Borman shared her view of the most heavily guarded door in all the world and said, "You have one job, Colonel; one priority. It’s all very simple, really. That door never gets opened."
 

"Whoops," Thom said aloud to himself as he turned to catch the front door before it closed. He dropped his duffel bag on the front stoop and reentered his ranch-style home.

Gant crossed the dining room and moved into the kitchen area. It was a bright kitchen, lots of white counters and cupboards, made even brighter by the big glass sliding door looking out on a rear patio and backyard.

He glanced around and found his black leather briefcase exactly where he had left it, on the linoleum floor next to one of the stools surrounding the breakfast bar. He bent, grabbed the handle, and stood straight again with the intention of exiting the house for the second time that morning.

Instead, he stopped and stared out the glass doors. There, beyond the patio and barbecue grill, was his wife on her hands and knees, working a patch of soil that served as their garden, although it was rather barren at the moment: only weeds, which Jean Gant seemed intent on eliminating.

It had been only moments since Thom had said good-bye to her, explaining that he was leaving on assignment, that he might be away as long as two weeks.

She took the news with the same demeanor with which she accepted all his news in recent years: without a protest, without a whimper, without any emotion at all. He might as well have been telling her the weather forecast for the day.

Many of their friends—back when they had friends—eventually asked the obvious question: did Thom and Jean have problems because they were an interracial marriage? Had her Italian father caused trouble?

Sure he had, until realizing that Thom was as an officer in the Marines. Soon the two swapped war stories. Tales of Korea in exchange for tales of Afghanistan. Hell, dad-in-law liked him even more when Thom was transferred to a Task Force that would operate under U.S. Army jurisdiction.

Unfortunately, their problems were not nearly as dramatic or as interesting as racism. He almost wished they faced a deluge of prejudice; then maybe they could have bonded in an "us against the world" type of way.

No, their problems had to do with him, but not because of the color of his skin.

When they married, she had been supportive of his job, yet afraid that his next mission would be his last. Their good-byes were passionate and sad. After a few years his assignments changed from somewhat predictable deployments to spur-of-the-moment missions; phone calls in the middle of the night.

Confused anger and tears replaced those passionate and sad good-byes. No amount of explaining would comfort her, no sincere apologies could appease. But like an exhausted boxer in the fifteenth round, Jean slowly succumbed to the blows. She grew too tired to burst into tears or scream out her frustration. No more emotion, just acceptance, probably the same way in which she accepted that the sun would rise every morning.

Her kisses good-bye were just a reflex, his predictions of return superfluous—it did not matter. She knew he would return when he returned, whenever that would be.

He loved her. He knew that. She loved him. He knew that, too.

They did not argue anymore. She did not question his job or offer any protest. On those evenings when he happened to be home she made dinner and they spoke of the weather, and the news, and repainting the master bedroom or what she should plant in the garden.

When he was not home, she shopped, she met with her bridge club, she visited her deteriorating mother in the retirement village outside of Los Angeles, and she even went to an occasional movie by herself.

She kept the home spotless; that was her pet project keeping her busy and focused.

Clean, neatly tucked sheets covered the bed in the spare room, and paper flowers decorated the night stand there. Yet no one came to visit. The master bedroom was equally as clean and well kept, an easy task, considering that half the bed was empty half the nights.

The living room, with the television and the couch and the recliner, was immaculate, decorated with wedding photographs, a Thomas Kincaid print depicting a snow-covered village, and the latest version of whatever coffee-table book had caught her eye at the mall.

A nice house. Not gigantic, but roomy. Not sophisticated, but very well maintained. Not a whole lot of land, but a nice size yard with privacy fencing to keep the world out.

What a perfect little home. All it needed was someone to live in it. The Gants were merely ghosts walking the halls.

He leaned against the counter and watched. She wore a bandana to keep her long black hair from her eyes while working in the dirt. She wore jeans and a gray t-shirt and dug into the soil to eliminate the remains of a dead or dying plant or weed.

Thom wondered what would happen—how she would feel—if one of these missions were his last. If one time he told her he would be back in a week and he was not back in ten days, or two weeks, or a month.

He wondered how she would feel when the big American-made SUV with the government license plates and tinted windows pulled to the curb and two well-manicured military types in dress uniforms and carrying attaché cases came marching up the walkway.

Would she be afraid or relieved?

He knew Jean would not have given her heart to someone whom she could ever stop loving. He knew that she was a part of him and he was a part of her—as much a part of her as her right arm.

No, he thought. No. She was right-handed. Without her right arm she could not do her crossword puzzles or write a shopping list or sketch wildflowers on the patio. Instead, he was her left arm—a good left arm, but still just the left arm. If he were gone, she would miss him. But would her life change? At all?

Thom remembered that a dark blue Chevrolet Suburban with an MP at the wheel waited for him at the curb. He had never made them wait so long before. His departures were always quick, efficient, and well planned; just like everything else Archangel did.

Why was this time different?

Because he had forgotten his case. He had come back inside and she was not crying or pounding her fists in frustration or opening the porch door for a lover to slip in. Perhaps any of those alternatives would have been preferable to what he did find: Jean going about her business because today was just another day in her life like any other day.

Major Thom Gant carried his briefcase out the front door. Jean continued tugging at a weed until she managed to pull it free of the soil, root and all.
 

Gant wound his wristwatch three hours into the future to make up the difference between California and Pennsylvania. In all, six hours had passed since he had left his home, yet he found himself in another Suburban, this one black and with a different soldier—a Corporal Sanchez—at the wheel who, like Thom, dressed in casual civilian clothes.

His day had begun with leaving Jean to her garden, then a ride on a DOD Learjet to a small commercial airport in Williamsport, Pennsylvania where Sanchez came to collect him. Next came a maze of rural roads until they finally settled on Route 118 East. Thirty minutes later they came to a crossroads at a village named Red Rock. At that point Sanchez swung onto another road slinking north through Ricketts Glen State Park and climbed Red Rock mountain.

Along the way they passed a trailer park, forests thinned by either logging or fire, and a sign marking an elevation of over 2,400 feet.

Eventually Sanchez abandoned this road for an even smaller one. Not long after that turn, Thom saw those first ominous yellow signs: "Posted and Patrolled," followed shortly thereafter by, "Property of the United States Federal Government—Armed Patrols." Then, of course, came the hurricane fencing with signs reading, "High Security Area—Sentries Authorized to Use Lethal Force."

Places like this, Thom thought, always had those signs. They always had the signs, the fences, the security cameras, the dogs, the infrared sensors, the checkpoints, and the key card locks—all to keep the outsiders out. Funny how the trouble that inevitably came to places like the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility came from within.