33
Raleigh waited at the fence until the blue Saturn drove on.
There were several troubling things about the man who’d leaned out the window to read the new sign that explained his team’s presence here. The man’s features were guarded, revealing nothing about what he thought. His hair was short-not military short but shorter and neater than was common among civilians. And his eyes were attentive, as if he analyzed everything he saw.
Definitely not just a tourist, Raleigh thought.
He kept waiting until the Saturn was obscured by the long line of cars that were parked along the side of the road. Then he turned to the dog trainer who had the German shepherd on a short leash.
“Put the fear of God into anybody who tries to come over that fence.”
As the trainer turned on his flashlight, Raleigh walked ahead of the two dark Suburbans, their only illumination coming from parking lights. He motioned for them to follow, leading them along what had once been a heavily traveled dirt road, its furrows now cluttered with weeds.
After a hundred yards, the last rays of sunset showed a wide row of collapsed airplane hangars to the left. Their corrugated metal had long since rusted. Scrub brush grew among them. Dirt had drifted against them. A lot of this was the work of nature, but some of it had been deliberately arranged to make the ruin look more dilapidated than it actually was.
Raleigh held up his hand, signaling for the vehicles to stop. He surveyed the old runway. Its concrete was visible only here and there, most of it covered with dirt. Weeds grew where numerous cracks had been baked into the pavement by the sun.
His grandfather had once stood here. It made Raleigh feel tremendously proud that a circle was about to close, that a mission his grand- father had started so long ago was finally about to be accomplished.
In World War II, when the hangars and the runway were freshly constructed, this would have been a scene of intense noise and activity, enough to make one’s heart pound. Hundreds of airmen had trained here every month, practicing bombing runs and aerial dog- fights in a place so remote that only the cattle, coyotes, and jack – rabbits were inconvenienced by the commotion. But training airmen had just been the cover story.
A breeze swept dust across the decay. When the darkness was thick enough to conceal them from prying eyes, Raleigh pointed toward a hangar that seemed less collapsed than the others. The Suburbans followed, and he tugged away a section of corrugated metal, revealing a space large enough to allow a vehicle to enter the hangar.
Once they were inside, Raleigh pulled out a flashlight and examined a thirty-foot-high pile of debris that appeared to be the result of a clean-up effort long ago. Pushing aside some of the debris, he un- covered the edge of a camouflaged radio dish that was aimed toward a similar dish at the observatory. After verifying that the dish hadn’t been disturbed, he edged behind some of the debris and pushed a button.
A portion of the concrete floor rumbled as it descended to form a ramp. Lights shone up from below, activated by the same button. His footsteps crunching on dirt, Raleigh walked down the ramp into a rush of cool underground air. The Suburbans followed him slowly, and the moment they reached the bottom, he stepped to a wall, where he pushed another button. The ramp ascended, becoming part of the ceiling.
As the men clambered out of the vehicle, Raleigh said, “Sergeant, assemble the team.”
Seconds later, they stood in a row before him.
“Gentlemen.” His voice reverberated off the concrete walls. “You’re beneath Hangar 8 of an airfield that was a training facility for U.S. military flight teams during World War II. The hangar and this area weren’t part of that effort, however. Only personnel with top-secret clearance were allowed in the hangar, and even fewer were allowed down here. The explanation was that the prototype for a new bomber was being assembled in the hangar and readied for testing. Trainees cycled through the program so quickly that they never stayed long enough to wonder why the bomber wasn’t completed and flown.
“You’re familiar with the race to develop the atomic bomb during the Second World War. The location for that project’s main research facility, Los Alamos, was on a remote, difficult-to-reach mesa in New Mexico. This underground area enjoyed similar advantages and had a similar purpose. If it seems out of the way now, imagine how truly out of the way it was in 1943, when the project began. The objective was to develop a weapon quite different from the atomic bomb. In a way, Hangar 8 and Los Alamos were racing against one another as well as the enemy. Of course Los Alamos won the race. In fact, the first atomic bomb was detonated at what’s now called the White Sands Missile Range, just two hundred and fifty miles north of here, and after two of those bombs ended the war in the Pacific, the urgency to develop a parallel weapon lost its force.”
Raleigh chose his next words with care. “In addition, there were what might be called difficulties in conducting the research here.”
Difficulties, indeed.
Raleigh looked around the subterranean chamber. Even after all these years, rust-colored smears were visible on the walls, but they had nothing to do with rust.
“With the end of the war, there was no longer any need to train massive numbers of military flight teams, and the cover story lost its effectiveness. So for a number of reasons, the airfield was shut down. Except for this underground facility, the base was allowed to deteriorate. This area wasn’t exposed to the elements, however, and apart from minor water damage, it adjusted extremely well to remaining in hibernation. Indeed, from time to time, it received maintenance checks in case its mission should ever be reactivated. Fifteen years ago, I did exactly that.
“I reactivated it.”
34
“Anita, are you sure this angle will work?”
Brent raised his voice so that he could be heard above the noisy crowd. He and his camerawoman stood on top of a Winnebago motor home that the owner-a local car dealer-had agreed to let them use in exchange for free publicity.
Like Brent, Anita had gotten only a few hours of sleep since coming to Rostov. There’d been too many people to interview, too many locations to scout. Her eyes looked heavy under her baseball cap. Her outdoor clothes, with their numerous pockets, seemed even more baggy than when they’d started.
My suit looks worse, Brent thought. A day earlier, that would have depressed him, but now-as he peered down at his scuffed, dusty shoes-he almost smiled at the new image he was creating for himself.
“You’ll be on the right side of the screen,” Anita answered. “The horizon’ll be on your left.” She looked so tired, he wondered how she had the strength to keep the heavy camera balanced on her shoulder. “It’s a clear shot. If we tried this on the ground, the crowd would get in the way, but from high up like this, they won’t be in the shot at all unless you ask me to tilt down.”
“Perfect. Stay focused on me unless I indicate otherwise. Tell Jack and the guy in the chopper to keep their cameras panning across the crowd the entire time, just in case something happens.”
“In case what happens?”
“Just make sure they’re ready. And I definitely want a shot of that guy.” Brent pointed down toward a tall, gray-bearded man who wore a biblical robe, held a staff, and looked like Charlton Heston playing Moses in The Ten Commandments.
He frowned toward the east, where the dark clouds were getting thicker. That rain better wait until I finish the broadcast, he thought.
“Okay, time to prep a guest.”
“Button your shirt. Straighten your tie,” Anita advised.
“No way.” Brent rubbed his bristly whisker shadow. “I want CNN to see how hard I’m working.”