“You’re not imagining things,” Gina says. “It is getting lower.”
Dallas shoots me a look to see if I’m okay.
Throughout the cavern, the jagged rock walls are painted white, and there are fluorescent lights hung everywhere, presumably to make it feel more like a workplace instead of an anthill.
To my surprise, it works.
On our right, two employees wait at an ATM that’s built into the rock. Next to that, there’s a red awning over a fully functioning store called the “Roadway Cafe.”
I thought being this far underground would feel like I was being buried. Instead…
“You’ve got a full-blown city down here,” Dallas says as we pass a new group of construction workers-this one putting the finishing touches on an area that holds vending machines.
“Almost three thousand employees. Think of us as the Empire State Building lying on its side and buried three hundred feet underground. We got a full-service post office… our own water treatment plant to make the toilets work… even good food in the cafeteria-though of course, it’s all brought in. There’s no cooking permitted on site. We get a fire and-forget burning the files that’re stored down here-y’know what kinda death trap we’d be standing in?” she asks with a laugh.
Neither Dallas nor I laugh back-especially as we both look up and notice the cargo netting that’s now running along the length of the ceiling and keeping stray rocks, cracked stalactites, and what feels like the entire cavern from collapsing on our heads. Back by the cafe and the ATM, we were in the cave’s version of Times Square. But as the employees thin out and we head deeper into the catacombs, this is clearly one of its darker alleys.
“Home sweet home,” Gina says, flicking on the golf cart’s lights.
Straight ahead, it looks like the cave dead-ends. But as the golf cart’s lights blink awake, there’s no missing the yellow police tape that keeps people from turning the corner, or the enormous red, white, and blue eagle-part of the National Archives logo-that’s painted directly on the cave wall. Above the eagle’s head is a partially unrolled scroll with the words: Littera Scripta Manet, the Archives motto that translates as “The Written Word Endures.”
Damn right it does, I think to myself, hopping out of the golf cart and darting for the bright red door that serves as the entrance to the Archives’ underground storage facility.
102
"Anything else I can help with?” Gina calls out, standing in the cave, outside the threshold of the open red door.
“I think we’re fine,” I tell her.
Dallas is already inside the storage unit.
I’m anxious to follow.
Gina never leaves her spot. As a sales rep, she’s in charge of clearing our visit with Mr. Harmon and the Presidential Records Office, checking our IDs, and even putting in the six-digit code that opens the steel door (and the secondary door that sits just behind that). But without the necessary security clearance, she can’t join us in here.
“Both doors open from the inside,” she assures us as the cold air pours out from the room. Just inside the door, I take a quick glance at the hygrothermograph on the wall. The temperature is at a brisk fifty-eight degrees, which is colder than we usually keep it.
“If you think of anything else, just gimme a call,” she adds, tapping the leather phone holster on her hip. Reading my expression, she says, “Reception’s great. We’ve got cell towers throughout.”
Her point hits home as my own phone starts to vibrate.
As I glance down, caller ID tells me it’s Tot. Again.
“I should grab this,” I say to Gina, who nods a quick goodbye, keenly aware of when a client needs privacy.
As the red steel door slams shut and my phone continues to vibrate, I spin toward our destination and step through the second door, where the damp darkness of the cave has been replaced by an enormous bright white room that’s as big as an airplane hangar and as sterile as our preservation staff can possibly manage. In truth, it’s just a taller, brighter version of our stacks in D.C., filled with row after row of metal shelves. But instead of just books and archive boxes, the specially designed shelves are also packed with plastic boxes and metal canisters that hold old computer tape, vintage film, and thousands upon thousands of negatives of old photographs.
There’s a reason this stuff is here instead of in Washington. Part of it’s the cold temperature (which is better for film). Part of it’s cost (which is better for our budget). But part of it-especially the archive boxes that are locked in the security cage on my left-is what we call “geographical separation.” It’s one of the National Archives’ most vital-and least known-tasks. If there’s ever a terrorist attack that turns Washington into a fireball, we’re fully ready with the documents and paperwork to make sure our most vital institutions survive.
But as I step into the room, the only survival I’m really worried about is my own.
“You find it yet?” I call to Dallas, who’s racing up the center aisle, checking record group numbers on each row of shelves that he passes.
His only answer is a sharp right turn as he disappears down one of the far rows in back. We’re definitely close.
My phone vibrates for the fourth time, about to kick to voicemail. I have no idea if Tot knows where we are. But now that he can’t get in the way, it’d probably be smart to find out.
“Beecher here,” I answer, waiting to see how long it takes him to fish.
“Where the hell are you?” Tot asks. “I left you half a dozen messages!”
“I didn’t get them. I’m just… it’s been a crazy day.”
“Don’t. I know when you’re lying, Beecher. Where are you? Who’re you with?”
I take a moment to think about a response. Even through the phone, I swear I feel Tot’s good eye picking me apart. “Tot, you need to-”
“Are you still with Clementine? I thought she left after the cemetery.”
I pause. “How’d you know I was at a cemetery?”
“Because I’m not an idiot like the rest of the idiots you seem to be in love with!”
“Wait… time out. Did you have someone following me!?”
Before he can answer, my phone beeps. I look down and recognize the number. It’s the only person who could possibly take me away from this one.
“Tot, hold on a sec.”
“Don’t you hang up on me!”
With a click, I put him on hold.
“Mr. Harmon?” I ask the man in Presidential Records who not only helped us get into the cave but also knows exactly what document we’re looking for. “I–Is everything okay?”
“That’s my question for you,” he says, though his tone surprisingly seems softer and more helpful than usual. That’s all I need to be suspicious. “Everything going okay down there?”
“It’s… we’re fine.” I pause a moment, confused. “Is there a reason we shouldn’t be fine?”
“Not at all,” he says, back to his military matter-of-factness. “Just making sure you got there. I’d asked the Copper Mountain folks to stay a little later when I heard you lost the directions.”
“When I lost the what?”
“The directions I sent. Your secretary said-”
“My secretary?”
“The woman who called. She said you lost the directions.”
Up on my left, back in the stacks, there’s a metal thunk. The problem is, Dallas is all the way down on my right.
According to the hygrothermograph, it’s still a cool fifty-eight degrees. But suddenly the long white room feels like an oven. Clearly we’re not alone in here.
“Mr. Harmon, let me call you right back,” I say, hanging up the phone.
“Dallas, we got problems!” I shout, racing up the aisle and clicking back to Tot.
“Wait-you’re with Dallas!?” Tot asks, hearing the last bits through the phone.