"I don’t know where to begin, really," she said, stumbling for the best approach.
"That usually isn’t your problem, Colonel," Borman said, without an ounce of levity in his words.
"General, how many missions have been sent into the quarantine zone since the containment doors shut?"
Borman grimaced. "That’s not information you should—"
"A dozen? Two dozen?" Liz pounced.
"Sir," Sanchez chimed in. "We found files for nearly sixty entry missions."
"Wait a moment," Borman interrupted. "You two went scouring through the records room? I don’t remember giving you permission to look through the archives."
Thunder pressed on, "And you should see what those missions were all about, sir. We were sending in the best military minds with the best equipment the Defense Department could muster."
At this point Borman saw that Sanchez held a thick old file folder. Thunder turned to the Corporal and nodded. Sanchez consulted papers in that file folder.
He spoke: "In October of 1993, ‘Badger’ force entered the quarantine zone. Their primary goal was listed as reconnaissance. Their equipment list included four new pairs of sneakers, laundry detergent, and several bottles of red wine."
General Borman reacted as if reading lines from a cue card, "Badger … mission objective was to search for survivors then return to entry point."
"The Badger team," Liz pointed out, "was never heard from again."
Sanchez continued, "January 1995, Delta Team Seven entered with an inventory list that included toothpaste, eyeglass frames, a hand-held battery-powered video game, and four dozen eggs. Delta Team Seven failed to return."
Again, the general spoke absently, "Delta Team Seven's mission objective was to detonate a radioactive device inside the complex in order to destroy any hostiles located within. Colonel Thunder, if you have a point to make, get to it."
"A point? A point?!"
Borman remained calm, emotionless. He even took the time to brush a hand across his medals. He thought it important she should take note of them.
Thunder slapped one index finger into the other as if counting her fingers as she ticked off items: "A loaf of frozen banana bread; half a dozen X-rated videocassettes; lipstick; textbooks on theoretical physics, subatomic structure, and quantum mechanics; powdered milk; pillowcases; a nail file—"
"Wait a second, wait a second," General Borman fluttered a dismissive wave. "Let’s get back to the important thing here. What were you doing rooting through all the old files? There’s no need for you to be going through all of that."
Thunder’s jaw dropped.
"Did you hear me? Have you been listening?"
He stared at her, unsure why she seemed so flabbergasted. Could she not understand a simple question? Had she lost control of her emotions?
Women tend to do that.
"Your missions all these years …" Liz grabbed the thick file folder from Sanchez, held it aloft, and growled at Borman — at her superior officer: "All of these — all of these people — they weren’t missions … they weren’t entry teams … they were supply runs!"
General Borman did not understand her point.
"All your air-quality tests … tell me, General, for every molecule of air you took out to test, how much more fresh air did you pump down there? Why, General? What is down there that you’re protecting? What have you been keeping alive all these years?"
Borman waited until the last huffs of her anxious breath had calmed. He held a hand outward in a conciliatory manner.
"Listen, Colonel," he said, priding himself on managing to remain calm. It was important to show a subordinate — particularly one in the grip of an emotional outburst — that remaining calm was the mark of a good officer. It was important to be in control of oneself at all times. "I can overlook your unauthorized foray into the records room, but only if you forget this silliness and return to your post."
Unfortunately, it appeared that his calm demeanor was lost on such an emotional creature. He saw her eyes grow wide and he heard her breath turn into gasps, like one of those teenagers in a horror movie when the bad boy with the machete comes calling.
"Oh … oh … my … God," she said and he did not like the way she looked him, as if his uniform were out of sorts. She raised a crooked finger at him and said, "You — you’re under the control of whatever is down there, aren’t you?"
He tried again to chase away her craziness. "Now Colonel — Liz — I am in complete control of myself. Look at me — rational, composed. Not a hair out of place, not a speck on my uniform. I am the very model of discipline."
Borman reconsidered his statement and glanced at his feet, which were dressed only in dark socks. He then glanced over at the pair of shoes waiting on the bed, yearning for his attention.
"Except for my shoes, of course. They do have a few scuffs that need to be worked out. Nothing I can’t handle, of course."
Colonel Thunder wobbled backwards, bumping into Sanchez.
"How long, General? How long has it been controlling you? Twenty years? Since the beginning? Is that door really to keep something locked up, or is it to keep something safe?"
His attention remained on his shoes. They were in need of attention.
"I do need to get back to polishing them."
"And the device you sent down with Major Gant; that device isn’t destroying whatever is down there, it’s helping it. Did it give you those marching orders, too?"
He felt himself growing angry at this interruption.
I have work to do and this woman is yapping on about nonsense.
"Colonel, I am going to get back to polishing my shoes. When I’m done, I’m going to decide whether or not to have you arrested. In the meantime, I suggest you head back to your quarters." The general directed his gaze at Sanchez: "And Corporal, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll distance yourself from Colonel Thunder. Too bad, too, I had such hopes for you. Such … such high hopes …"
Sanchez gripped Liz’s shoulder and answered with the proper respect, "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I’ll show the colonel back to her quarters, sir."
"That's a good soldier. Carry on."
General Borman watched Sanchez all but push Thunder out the door and close it behind.
Good boy, that Sanchez, for a Hispanic fellow. Now, where did I put those shoes?
29
Gant propped himself on one knee, his head slung low while a trio of the entity's children dragged Brandon and Andrew's bodies out into the hallway and no doubt to some corner where they would eat. The heavy doors swung shut, leaving two trails of crimson behind.
The entity — in the form of Dr. Briggs — had been gone for a long time, but time in the belly of the Hell Hole was some sort of illusion. Reality was the dark, the stale air, and the horrid enigma of the entity and its court. Thom had been swallowed by some horrific beast; a tale of Jonah's whale and Dante's Inferno wrapped into one.
Ruthie retreated across the room but still held a gun, and Jolly stood in a corner watching through his crazy eyes with a permanent smile.
Gant, however, would not be trying any heroics. The last blow with the baton had damaged his shoulder. Now he had a busted knee and what felt like a separated shoulder. He could not run and, for the time being at least, his right arm could not hold a weapon, much less throw a punch.
The entity, for all its great mental powers, had neutralized the major with the pure blunt force of an essentially primitive weapon, wielded by a mindless brute.
"They’ve abandoned you, you know," Dr. Briggs said, emerging from the isolation chamber at the back of the lab. He seemed to glide across the floor.