The Doomsday Box (3 page)

But he could put up with discomfort—he hadn't exactly led a cushy life. What was getting to him was nerves. He didn't like the way the engine noise would suddenly vary as if there was something wrong. He didn't like the turbulence that sometimes got so bad it felt as if the plane would shake apart. He didn't like the way the redheaded flight attendant kept running up the center aisle with a worried look on her face. He didn't like the feeling there was a thin skin of aluminum underneath his seat, then nothing for 36,000 feet. Most of all, he didn't like the way the wing was moving.

Danny and the others had been booked onto a flight to New York. Each reservation was made separately as a routine security precaution, with seating spaced out so that they didn't appear to be traveling as a team. (Michael was lounging in first class now, having drawn the lucky straw.) Shortly after they boarded, Danny had helped himself to an empty window seat, after deciding he would be less nervous if he was able to look outside. Now he was looking out at the wing and feeling more nervous than ever.

Somebody slid into the empty seat beside him. “Doesn't it look amazing?” a voice asked. “Like a cotton-wool floor. I feel as if I could climb out there and dance across it like a fairy.”

Danny glanced away from the threatening wing to find Fuchsia had joined him (against all orders!) and was staring past him through the window at the fluffy cloud layer fifty feet below. She was wearing an orange top with a floral miniskirt over thick, lime-green woolen tights. “Does that wing look all right to you?” he asked.

Fuchsia leaned across him and stared at the wing. “It's not on fire,” she said seriously.

“No, but it's moving up and down—see?”

“So it is! Just a little.” Fuchsia smiled at him.

“You don't think it might snap off?”

“The wing? Oh, it can't,” Fuchsia said brightly. “They don't attach two wings to a plane with glue or rivets or whatever. It's just one big wing that goes all the way through.”

Danny looked at her, then looked back out. “It is?” he asked. “Is it really?”

“Really.” Fuchsia nodded. “My uncle told me and he's a pilot.”

“Oh, good.” Danny glanced at the cotton-wool clouds. They did look as if you could get out and walk on them. “We're not supposed to sit together,” he said, suddenly remembering.

“No, we're not—isn't it silly?” She gave him another of her smiles. “I'll go back in a minute. I just came over to find out if you have a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?”

“A girlfriend. Are you going out with Opal or somebody?”

Not likely,
Danny thought. “Opal's going out with Michael,” he said. “I'm not going out with anybody.”

Fuchsia's smile widened. “Just wanted to let you know I'm available,” she said. She patted his knee lightly, then tripped back to her seat.

Danny watched her go. After a moment he remembered to close his mouth.

M
ontauk was not what Michael had expected. The old air force base looked abandoned. A
KEEP OUT
warning sign was almost wholly overgrown with grass. The perimeter fence was broken down in several places. There were weeds poking through the concrete of the runways. His car stopped outside a gateway that was hanging from one hinge. Inside the fence, portions of the base looked like a construction site. He could hear the growl of earth-moving machinery and the clank of cranes. Workmen in hard hats lumbered about unloading materials. They seemed to be renovating one of the old buildings.

“You got your ID?” his driver asked him. Michael nodded. The driver was sharply dressed in a gray suit and wore shades straight out of Central Casting, but he still managed to look like a boxer. He had to be with one of the agencies, but he'd flatly refused to give out any information on the trip from the airport. Now he climbed out of the car and held open Michael's door like a chauffeur. “This is as far as I take you,” he said. “Don't have clearance to go any farther. You must be mixed up in some heavy stuff.”

“Where do I go?” Michael asked, ignoring the comment.

“Tell any of the workmen you're here to see Mr. Allen.” The driver glanced through the gate and gave the ghost of a smile. “If you get that far.”

He didn't. Although the base seemed deserted outside the construction area, he walked fewer than a dozen steps before a uniformed security officer emerged from one of the broken-down buildings. “Michael Potolo?” she said pleasantly. He noticed the uniform was of a private security firm, but all the same she was armed and, despite the pleasant tone, her hand rested casually on the butt of the pistol in her belt. Whatever the superficial appearances, somebody was taking security very seriously round here.

Michael nodded. “Yes, ma'am. Here to see Mr. Allen.”

She smiled at him. “Mind if I check your ID?”

Michael handed her his Shadow Project papers and waited. She checked the photo ID carefully before handing them back. “Know what, Michael? You surely have a cute accent.”

Michael smiled back. “Thank you. Is there really a Mr. Allen?”

She shook her head. “You're liaising with Colonel Saltzman. This operation is under military jurisdiction. You want to follow me, Michael? The others are already with him.”

Colonel Saltzman was not what Michael expected either. He was a slender, balding man in his fifties, wearing a sour expression and a civilian suit that made him look like a constipated bank manager. His office had the appearance of something a bank manager would use as well—large computer desk, filing cabinet, and a scattering of chairs, but nothing else. Opal and the others, including Gary Carradine, were occupying those chairs now.

“Michael Potolo, sir,” said Michael's escort. “That's everybody now.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Saltzman said.

“Captain?” Michael echoed in surprise. He glanced at his security guard.

“Captain Alison Woods,” she said quietly. “Don't let the uniforms fool you—nothing's what it seems around here.” She snapped off a quick salute to the colonel, then left. As the door closed behind her, Michael found himself thinking of a saying from his native Mali:
What you see, it's not what you think.

Colonel Saltzman pinched the bridge of his nose in a tired gesture and scowled. “Okay, we got a situation here, and they tell me you guys can help.” He looked from one face to another, with the bewildered expression of someone examining the evidence from an alien autopsy. “You're psychics—right?”

No one seemed in a hurry to answer him before Mr. Carradine said, “Not exactly, Colonel.”

The colonel stared at him for a moment. “You're an American, Mr. Carradine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“CIA from what they tell me?”

Carradine nodded. “Currently with the Shadow Project in Britain, but yes: I'm still CIA.”

“So tell me, Mr. Carradine, what's a CIA operative doing mixed up with a bunch of kids from
The Twilight Zone
?”

Mr. Carradine gave a slight smile, but Michael could tell he was not particularly amused. Even in the short time Michael had been with the Shadow Project, he'd realized Mr. Carradine felt protective toward his operatives.

Carradine said carefully, “Let me see if I understand the situation here, Colonel. The government has authorized a revival of the Montauk Project, and we've been drilling to open up the old space-time rift. That about the size of it?”

“Yes.”

Carradine said softly, “I believe the alarm has gone off, Colonel Saltzman.”

A wary look entered Saltzman's eyes. “Yes.”

“Which means something from another place, another time—from outside of our reality, in fact—could be trying to get in.” He stopped, holding the colonel's gaze and raising one eyebrow.

The colonel shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

“What other way would you like to put it?” Mr. Carradine asked. When the colonel was silent, Carradine said, “Let's cut the bull, Colonel. Somebody has convinced the president that the old Project Rainbow may have stumbled on an answer to the energy crisis, and an order has come down to reopen the space-time rift. If you stop drilling, the president is going to be very unhappy. But if you keep going, you have no idea what you might let through. We both know what happened in the old days. You're in trouble here, and my people—these
kids
as you call them—are the only ones who can bail you out. They're not psychics and they're not circus freaks. They're trained operatives with a very special talent—and that talent could be the solution to your problem.”

There was a long, tense silence, then Saltzman's shoulders suddenly slumped. “I'm sorry, Mr. Carradine. You're right. They dumped this whole thing in my lap when the alarm went off, and I've only had a few hours' sleep since then. Makes me tetchy.” He looked around the group. “Okay, what's the plan?”

Fifteen minutes later they were gathered round a plan of the Montauk underground complex spread across the colonel's desk and weighted down by a variety of objects, including his cell phone and, alarmingly, his sidearm. The place, Michael thought, was huge—almost twice the size of the Shadow Project. That was pretty much the American way. They liked to do things bigger and better than the British.

“Of course, it's been abandoned for years,” Colonel Saltzman remarked, as if reading his thoughts. “But I remember Jack Mullan telling me that when Project Rainbow was at its height, there were three thousand people down there—scientists, armed forces personnel, clerical, and catering staff. It was like a small town. Jack—Admiral Mullan—had the time of his life running it. Pity he's not here to see the project revived.” He hesitated, then turned to Opal. “I don't know if it makes any difference to you, young lady, but your target is deep underground—the whole place was built to withstand a nuclear hit.”

Like the Shadow Project
, Michael thought.

Carradine said, “It won't make a difference.” He pointed to a section of the map. “This is our target—right?”

“That's right. The rift chamber itself is intact, but it's sealed four sides top and bottom with specially reinforced concrete. We're drilling through here.” He pointed. “Approaching from the southwest.”

“Is that all those big bulldozers and things we saw coming in?” Fuchsia asked.

The colonel shook his head. “No, that's part of our cover operation to mask any vibration or noise and give us an excuse to move in heavy machinery. We're supposed to be doing renovations on the base with a view to giving it back to the air force. But the real work is underground. We have an industrial auger down there, biggest SOB you've ever seen. We were just a few hours off the chamber when the alarm went off. We stopped drilling, of course.”

“We'll go in from where you stopped,” Carradine said decisively. “Opal doesn't like projecting through solid objects, so the shorter the distance she has to travel, the better. I assume you've still got an electrical feed into the sealed chamber?”

The colonel nodded. “Sure thing. Otherwise the alarm couldn't have gone off.”

“We'll have to switch some lights on, or she won't be able to see. Apart from that . . .” Carradine trailed off vaguely. “I can't think of any other preparations.”

“When can we do it?” Saltzman asked him.

“I'm expecting some equipment from Langley,” Carradine said. “We can go when it arrives.”

“There was a crate delivered for you a couple of hours ago,” the colonel said. “Arrived just before you did.”

Carradine glanced at Opal, who nodded slightly. “In that case, Colonel,” Carradine said briskly, “if you can show me the way, we can go now.”

T
ell me something, Mr. Carradine, if it's not classified information,” Colonel Saltzman said. “Why four operatives?”

Carradine smiled slightly. “I guess your clearance is high enough for me to answer that, Colonel. We flew four operatives across because remote viewing is a two-person job. Opal here will do the viewing, but Michael's her partner and acts as her anchor—it stops psychological damage while she's out of the body. It's a technical thing. It has to do with the energies our equipment generates.”

Opal liked the way Mr. Carradine had described Michael as her partner, even though it only meant they worked together on Project operations. Colonel Saltzman said, “What about the other two?”

“Backup,” Mr. Carradine told him. “This is too important an op to leave anything to chance. Danny's as talented at the work as Opal, although he's not as experienced. And Fuchsia”—the smile widened slightly—“well, you mustn't judge a book by the way it dresses, Colonel.”