A Hole in the Sky (10 page)

“I agree,” Capelli said. “We’ll be ready.”

Murphy delivered a salute with the riding crop, gave Rowdy a pat on the head, and melted into the crowd. Capelli felt the strange tingling sensation at the back of his neck, took a long fruitless look around, and wound up selling the Luger for two .38s and a pocket knife. Later, when he went to open it, he discovered that the second blade had been broken off.

As the sunlight began to fade, and the shadows lengthened, Capelli figured they were a good five or six miles east of Colby. His knees hurt, his butt was sore, and the horse he was riding seemed to know that he was a novice rider. A fact made obvious by its tendency to make a side trip whenever a clump of especially succulent grass appeared.

The pack train included six wranglers, all of whom were amused by Capelli’s lack of equestrian expertise, and never tired of poking fun at him. Besides the mounts the men were riding, the group had a spare purchased from Locke. The actual cargo, whatever it was, had been loaded onto ten mules, each of which could carry about eighty pounds. So Capelli figured the group was moving eight hundred pounds of
something
. Less supplies, of course. Not that it mattered to him so long as everything went smoothly.

It was clear that the wranglers not only knew what they were doing, but had been working together for quite awhile as they laagered for the night. The site consisted of a rise crowned by a sturdy rock wall and a burned-out farmhouse. There wasn’t any shelter to speak
of, but the waist-high wall would offer cover if the group was attacked, and the ruins were a plentiful source of firewood.

As the camp was set up, most of the animals were unloaded and given a chance to graze under the watchful eye of a mounted wrangler. All of which struck Capelli as very professional. And after darkness had fallen the well-screened fire, an excellent dinner, and the neatly aligned tents all combined to reinforce this impression. In fact, it was almost
too
well run in Capelli’s estimation.

The whole thing was reminiscent of the Army. And, as he listened to the men chatter among themselves, he was struck by the frequent use of phrases like “Roger that,” “He’s on the far side of the perimeter,” and “What’s for chow?”

Of course there were lots of ex-soldiers around, and the fact that a group of them had banded together could be explained in all sorts of ways, but Capelli resolved to keep his eyes peeled nevertheless.

Locke had no such reservations, and clearly felt at ease with the wranglers, as a group of them sat around discussing the finer points of Ford flathead engines. A subject of very little interest to Capelli, who was sore after more than three hours spent in the saddle and looking forward to turning in early. And, more than that, to a full night’s sleep, since Murphy insisted that his men would take all of the two-hour watches.

So the packers were gathered around the fire when Capelli got up and slipped away. Rowdy had been gone for an hour by then, hunting probably, because that was the way he got most of his food.

Capelli wasn’t trying to walk quietly. Doing so was second nature. And that was the reason why the wrangler who was kneeling next to Locke’s open pack failed to hear him. Capelli froze as the beam from a penlight played across his client’s gear. The fire threw some light
into the surrounding area, but because the runner was standing in the dense shadow cast by the farmhouse’s freestanding chimney, he was impossible to see.

Capelli’s first instinct was to draw his pistol, step forward, and challenge what appeared to be a thief. But what if the man wasn’t acting alone? What if he had
orders
to search the packs? Given what he’d observed earlier in the day, such a thing seemed to be all too possible. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Putting the flashlight down in order to use both hands, the wrangler bent forward to inspect the inside of the pack. For a brief moment part of the man’s face was illuminated. Only then did Capelli recognize him as a packer named Cody, a wrangler who had been standing nearby as he sold weapons back in Colby. He wondered if there was some sort of connection.

No more than a minute had passed since Capelli had left the circle of firelight. He heard a low whistle, saw Cody kill the light and melt into the darkness. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he’d been missed and a wrangler had been sent to warn Cody.

Capelli turned back towards the fire and pretended to zip up his pants as he reentered the firelight’s soft glow. Murphy was seated on the ground and leaning on a saddle. His eyes seemed to glitter as he looked up. “It’s a nice evening, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Capelli said, agreeably, as he held his palms towards the warmth. “It is. The nights are getting colder, though.”

Capelli and Locke announced their intention to turn in about twenty minutes later. As soon as they were alone, Capelli told Locke about what he’d seen and his decision to part company with the pack train as soon as possible. They couldn’t do so that night, not with a sentry on duty at all times, but an opportunity would arise soon. Or so he hoped.

So they agreed that they would take turns sleeping with weapons at the ready just in case the wranglers attacked during the night. That was why Capelli was awake when dozens of Grims burst up out of the farmhouse’s basement, killed the sentry, and attacked the men trapped in their sleeping bags.

The President of the United States was living in a cave. Not because he
wanted
to, but because it wasn’t safe to live out in the open. So when the wind-up alarm clock began to ring, he was sleeping in what he jokingly referred to as the “Executive Residence.” Meaning a side room off the cavern’s main gallery, where what remained of the federal government convened daily. It was pitch black, so his first attempt to locate the obnoxious clock failed. But the second succeeded.

Most of the facility had electric power, thanks to the presence of an underground lake and the turbine generator placed in the tube through which the outflow had been forced to pass. So the lamp located next to his sleeping platform came on as he turned the switch and the limestone walls were flooded with a soft yellow glow.

That was the easy part. Then he had to steel himself for what came next. The temperature inside the caves was a constant 58 degrees Fahrenheit. That was bearable when fully dressed but felt cold as Voss rolled out of the sack.

But there was no way to escape the moment, not and get his work done, so Voss sat up and began to work his
way out of the bag. Once his legs were free, he hurried to pull the robe on before making his way over to a corner where all he had to do was hold a bowl under a steady stream of water in order to collect enough for a quick sponge bath. Later, assuming he found enough time, he would shave and take a hot shower in the communal facility down on the main floor.

Voss donned an Army uniform that bore no insignia, and slipped his arms into the Magnum’s shoulder holster harness, before stepping out onto the natural balcony just outside of his quarters. A downward-slanting trail led from his quarters to the main floor below. The pathway was one person wide and most of it had been excavated by hand.

The main gallery, which was at least one hundred feet high and three times as wide, was absolutely spectacular. It was illuminated twenty-four hours per day by lights that splashed the cathedral-like ceiling and painted the walls with gold.

Hundreds of spiky stalactites hung from the rocky surface above and some of them cascaded down the sides of the main room like frozen waterfalls. All of the formations had been created by the steady drip, drip, drip of mineralized solutions over thousands of years.

Pointy stalagmites, too, stuck up from the floor, as if reaching for the stalactites above. And sometimes they came together. Whenever that occurred, columns of variegated limestone were formed. They looked like carved ivory and added to the otherworldly, surreal beauty of the place.

But spectacular or not, Voss and his staff had been forced to destroy hundreds of stalagmites in order to clear the main floor. Having been taken apart and brought into the cavern piece by piece, a carefully reconstructed D-7 Caterpillar tractor was used to grade the surface. The
machine had to be used sparingly, though, because the ventilation inside the gallery was poor, and it didn’t take long for carbon monoxide to build up. Just one of the many problems associated with living in a cave.

When Voss stepped off the trail and onto the main floor, Cassie Aklin was there to greet him. She was about five-eight, had light brown hair, and intelligent eyes. She had a hot cup of coffee ready and he paused to accept it. As he did so, Voss knew he was surrendering himself to whatever Aklin had scheduled for the day. In fact there were times when Voss wondered who was in charge. Him? Or the woman with the PhD in psychology?

Aklin had been employed by SRPA. Then, when what remained of the government had been forced to flee Denver, she had agreed to act as his chief of staff and nothing more, in spite of his best efforts to engineer a closer relationship.

For her part Aklin claimed to be attracted to him, but insisted that it wouldn’t be ethical to be both his lover and chief of staff. “Let me put it this way,” she had said recently. “Which do you want more? My body? Or my mind?”

Voss wanted both, but he knew that even a marriage wouldn’t be enough to erase the ethical dilemma. And he knew something else as well, or thought he did, and that was the fact that Aklin had been in love with the legendary Nathan Hale. Part of her was still mourning his death at the hands of another soldier. So, with the exception of whatever affection was implied by the morning coffee ritual, their relationship was dishearteningly professional.

Aklin smiled as he took a sip. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Voss wasn’t sure that the “Mr. President” thing was appropriate given their circumstances. But Aklin insisted
on it, because as she put it, “The title is an important part of what we’re trying to restore.”

Voss smiled. “Good morning, Cassie! What have you got lined up for me? Will I be meeting with foreign dignitaries? Or cleaning out the filter for the septic system?”

Aklin grinned. “Neither one, although you did a great job with the pump, and the maintenance crew was grateful. You’re meeting with a member of the press this morning.”

Voss raised his eyebrows. “Really? Who?”

“His name is George Truitt. He works for KGHI in Little Rock and he walked more than a hundred and fifty miles to talk to you.”

Voss knew that a handful of radio stations were still on the air across the country. All of them were operated by brave men and women who couldn’t broadcast for more than a few minutes a day for fear of being tracked down by the Chimera and killed.

But so long as the stations continued to exist, Aklin saw them as an important way to get the administration’s primary messages out to the public and Voss knew them by heart: “The United States government still exists, we are going to inoculate the population against the Chimeran virus, and this country
will
rise again.”

It was more than a message of hope, it was a promise, and one Voss intended to keep. “Good. Where is Mr. Truitt?”

“In conference room one.”

It was an old joke, but Voss laughed anyway. The cavern’s main floor was divided into three sections. The lab facility run by Dr. Malikov occupied one end of the huge room. The kitchen, a medical clinic, and two sets of communal showers were located on the opposite side of the oval space. Everything else was right smack dab in the middle. And that included “conference room one.”

The rectangular space consisted of little more than a table, some chairs, and plywood partitions for an illusion of privacy. There was no conference room two. “So, if you don’t mind,” Aklin added, “we’ll serve your breakfast in the conference room.”

“I’m sure Mr. Truitt would appreciate one of Ruth’s famous cinnamon rolls,” Voss put in, as they followed a gravel path to “Main Street,” where they took an immediate right. Half a minute later they were in the screened-off conference room where Truitt, Kawecki, and two of his soldiers were waiting. Truitt was about six feet tall and dressed for the outdoors. His head was covered with a black hood, the idea being to keep the exact location of the facility’s entrances and exits a secret.

“Please remove Mr. Truitt’s hood,” Voss said.

Kawecki obeyed, and Truitt blinked repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the light. He had dark skin and a receding hairline. Judging from the amount of white hair in his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, Truitt was in his late fifties. He had a deep basso voice that thousands of people were familiar with. “Mr. President! This is both an honor and a pleasure.”

“Thank you for coming so far to see me,” Voss said as he stepped forward to shake hands. “I’m sorry about the hood.”

“There’s no need to be. I understand,” Truitt assured him, as he looked up at the dramatic formations that circled the main gallery. “It isn’t the White House—but it’s very beautiful.”

“Yes,” Voss replied. “I agree. Please take a seat. I’m told that breakfast is on the way—and we can talk while we’re waiting.”

Once the two men were seated, Truitt produced a battery-powered recorder, which he placed on the table between them. Having plugged a mike into the machine, he turned it on. “Are you ready, Mr. President?”

Voss smiled. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good,” Truitt replied. “The first question will follow my introduction.”

Voss couldn’t help but notice the way the timbre of Truitt’s voice changed as his radio persona took over. “This is George Truitt. I am with Thomas Voss, the acting President of the United States, reporting to you from an undisclosed location in Arkansas. It’s early in the morning, the President is sipping a cup of coffee, and appears to be in good health.”