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.”
Truitt paused as he repositioned the microphone. “First, before we go any further, could you comment on how you came to be President? As I understand it, you were Assistant Secretary of Interior during the previous administration.”
Voss was expecting the question and had an answer ready. “As Assistant Secretary of Interior I was subordinate to a person on the succession list. And, if someone on the official list steps forward, I will immediately surrender the reins of government to them. But,” Voss continued, “no one has done so thus far. Probably because all of them are dead. So, as acting President, I’m trying to do everything in my power to protect our citizens and take our country back from the Chimera.”
“And that brings us to the attack on the tower in New York,” Truitt said, as a cup of coffee and a huge cinnamon roll arrived at his elbow. “Tell us about that.”