The plane came to a halt. All aboard — including Waters — stood. The guards collected their rifles and kept a close eye on their two charges, who were shuffled to the exit.
Stacy emerged into thick, humid air that seemed heavy enough to swim through and filled with a myriad of scents ranging from sweet to sour. She now saw that they had landed on a very thin stretch of paved runway surrounded by thick rainforest. If that did not make this place hard enough to find, she noticed a small truck stretching more camouflage nets over the pavement. She realized that in a few minutes the landing strip would be all but invisible.
It hit her how far they had gone down the rabbit hole. Captain Campion and Lieutenant Colonel Thunder might be directing a fleet of navy ships with air support and a battalion of marines to find and secure Tioga, but she and the major had been spirited off to yet another clandestine location, this one even more secretive than the last.
For about the tenth time in the last twelve hours, she realized that death might be moments away. First the parachute drop from six miles up, then the attack of animated corpses, then the armed intruders … one threat after another.
If she survived, she wondered if all these near-death experiences would make her numb to danger, or if she would run away screaming from Archangel into the arms of some tenured university position or a cushy corporate job.
A line of passengers, including technicians or researchers as well as armed security personnel, moved from the jet along a dirt road protected by a canopy of green. She noticed tracks from both treads and tires in the moist earth. This was a well-worn path.
Moments later a building materialized out of the jungle, showing itself to be wider and longer with each step closer. Shaped like a rectangle and painted in camouflage, the structure stood twenty feet tall and greeted the passengers with a horizontal metal garage door. She saw no windows, although she did notice security cameras keeping a close eye on all who approached.
The group congregated outside while Waters approached a security panel of some kind and interacted.
Stacy took advantage of the pause to take in her situation and surroundings. First, a pair of guards wearing black tunics kept assault rifles trained on her and Major Gant. She had the distinct feeling that while her captors wanted to interrogate them, any attempt at escape would be met with lethal force.
It did not appear to her that Major Gant seemed interested in making a break for it. Perhaps because — she knew — he still nursed a wounded knee as well as occasional pain from a shoulder he had separated months ago. She considered it equally as likely that he had accepted their captivity in the hope of gaining insight into Waters and his employers. What good that would do if they were lined up in front of a firing squad, she did not know.
As for the island, everything from the airstrip to the hidden complex pointed to concealment. The building was not small, and it appeared to be built of concrete. Such a structure would have required a construction crew and time to build or — at the very least — refurbish from an existing site. Same with the airstrip. That meant Waters and his friends had survived on this island without outside interference for a significant amount of time and would most likely remain hidden for a lot longer.
The big door cranked open, rising into the roof, shaking and rattling along the way. Only a few isolated beams of sun managed to cut through the tree limbs, but those that did illuminated a big garage area, complete with trucks and Jeeps.
The line of people moved again, leaving the moist air of the jungle behind for a poorly illuminated chamber that smelled of diesel and grease.
Once they were inside, the garage door rolled shut, and at the same time a bank of lights came on, improving visibility. At that point Stacy realized that the chamber served a dual purpose, the first being the obvious use as a motor pool.
The second became apparent as she spied another door, this one a featureless white bulkhead with a red light glowing overhead. Again she spotted a security camera keeping watch over the scene. It seemed the garage was also a antechamber controlling access to the main facility in a manner similar to an airlock.
This time their host spoke aloud, addressing whoever watched through the camera.
"Waters here, accompanied by executive team and security detail, as well as two detainees."
The camera panned side to side, inspecting the occupants of the anteroom, apparently to the satisfaction of the observer because the light turned green and the interior bulkhead rose.
"Everyone inside," Waters directed. "Even you two," he said, pointing to his prisoners.
This time they left behind the grease and gas smell for an odor so sterile it seemed like the air was made of plastic, making the scent nearly as surreal as the surroundings: ivory walls to either side of a gray floor, the whiteout broken only by stenciled numbers, red-and-yellow-striped "fire stations," and blue boxes labeled "Security."
Air conditioning dropped the temperature so fast that the sweat on her back felt as if it had turned to ice, sending the first shiver up her spine that day that did not come from fear.
The passage merged with another corridor that swept in from her left on a soft turn and then straightened as it continued on like the long side of a race track oval. She spotted several different doors to either side along the way, one appearing rather oversized.
A computerized voice announced over a public address system, "ATTENTION. THIRD WAVE HAS RETURNED. THIRD WAVE PERSONNEL REPORT TO SECURITY STATION FOR DEBRIEFING."
With that announcement the group dispersed, although two armed men remained on Stacy and Gant's flanks.
She turned to him and saw the major surveying their surroundings with one eye cocked and half-expected him to say something like "fascinating," or "impressive," given the apparent size and scope of the operation.
Instead, Major Gant turned to Waters and demanded to know, "Okay, Doctor, which power are you working for?"
Before their host could answer, a new voice joined the conversation.
"We do not work for any government."
The newcomer had curly brown hair and glasses and dressed in something like business casual but carried the air of a student teacher more than that of a corporate suit.
"We work for all the world, Major Gant."
15
Thom did not resist the guards' direction as the new voice led he and Dr. Stacy to the left, around a bend, and along another straight passageway. Instead, he acted completely humble and under their power; he showed no sign of resistance although it unnerved him that their host knew his name.
He did, however, plan. The first stage in any plan revolved around intelligence gathering. So as they traveled through what appeared to be an oval-shaped base, he watched and listened.
His eyes saw security cameras on swivel mounts every thirty feet or so, as well as tracks for bulkheads that could conceivably cut the facility into smaller, contained parts. He noted call boxes and warning signs written in English. Doors marked as "labs" sprouted off from the inner wall, including a double-wide one labeled "Specimen Storage."
The sight that grabbed his attention the most was the "Security Control" room that was a self-contained chamber on a raised platform that gave Thom the impression of a press box at a sports arena, although in this case the box overlooked only a wide hall. Still, he suspected that the cameras, bulkheads, and alarms were all controlled from that particular stop on the tour.
As for personnel, despite being a fairly large facility it seemed sparsely populated. He counted two distinct types of occupants: scientists and soldiers, the most unholy and consistently bedeviling of alliances in all the world. It seemed to Thom Gant that very little good came about when those two groups found common ground.