Chapter 301

The Construction Site

Inside the office trailer, the site boss had finally gotten time to call the Denver office on his SAT phone.

" ... Damned if I know. The first I realized anything was going on was when I heard one of the guard's amplified voice thundering out, 'Halt.' Then all hell broke loose. There were helicopters all over, and guards and people in uniforms came from everywhere. I told you I thought this place was some type of military installation. They opened the gate, snatched Ferguson up, and a few minutes later were gone with him. Some guy wearing lieutenant's bars eventually called me over and told me that Ferguson wasn't coming back. When I tried to ask him what was going on, he just said Ferguson had been arrested and if I hired a replacement for him, I needed to be more thorough with a background check. He was emphatic about that."

After listening for a moment, the site boss went on. "Yeah, yeah, I know, but remember, these people stressed that we should do thorough background checks on anyone we brought out here to work on this project, and I also know that they're paying extra for a premium quality job. The main office stressed that. We were scheduled for a project in Canada, but all of a sudden, this one took precedence. Even before I started the project, I was lectured about keeping everyone inside the fence and completing the project on time without incident, and ... that included not pissing off these people. I don't know what happened, and I for damn sure am not going to ask them again. All I want to do is to get this job done, do it right, and get the hell back to the real world. So send me another laborer – someone who doesn't get fucking military guns pointed at my ass."

Pressing the off button on the SAT phone left him wishing for a regular phone he could slam down. As he glanced out the window, he saw the foreman motion to the slope and give a thumbs up. That meant the crew had finished digging the ramp in the dirt down to expose the granite. Time to finish up Big Mack's assembly, and get him on the rails and down to where he can start doing his thing. Once he's bored the slope down to the required depth in the granite, we can get started working on the fortress itself. Dammit, now is when I'm going to really need another laborer.

(Note: The crew first had to dig a sloping ramp twenty feet or so down to the granite. After the rails were installed for the borer to ride on, it would begin its job of digging a ramp down through the granite to the level the fortress was to be built {bored out}. At that point, the big borer would develop the main corridors. Eventually, smaller borers would carve out rooms and more modest sized hallways as necessary to complete the initial phase of the fortress project. The borers and other equipment would eventually exit the partially completed fortress via the initial ramp. When the project was complete, this ramp through the rock would be sealed with a mix of industrial concrete and crushed granite, and the dirt ramp would be filled in and the sod replaced. The family's access to the fortress would be via two separate elevators with blast doors separating the staged shafts. Although access would be from inside the basement, the shafts would be bored just outside the Retreat itself. To access the fortress, the family would enter a tunnel from the basement of the Retreat to the first underground elevator. Fifty feet down, that elevator would terminate and the family would move through an offset connecting corridor, go through a blast door, then use a second elevator to go down another fifty feet in the granite to that elevator's termination point. Through another blast damper and another blast door and they would reach the fortress itself. There would also be two staged stairways installed in case the elevators failed.)

He sat thinking for a moment. I hate to go over the heads of the people in the local office, but there's going to be trouble if the customer complains. Shit, I guess I'll just wait and see what happens. If they complain and the shit hits the fan, all I can do is tell the main office what went on. If they want to know what happened to Ferguson, they can ask. I damn sure am not.

As the site boss left the office, zipping his heavy coat against the cold wind, he saw the General and the tall guy leaving the big building – the Retreat, whatever that was – and walking toward the other building in the distance. The tall guy was strolling along in a tee shirt and jeans. The boss glanced back at the thermometer on the outside of the trailer. Three degrees Fahrenheit. What the fuck kind of guy is he? he wondered, then, Must be a robot or something to be out here dressed like that, he idly thought. Hell, I'm already cold and I've barely managed to get thirty feet from the office, and that's with the wind breaks, and the blowers running full blast. Hmmm, the guards don't have on coats either, just their uniforms, gloves and helmets. How in the hell do they keep warm while standing there like statues. Then what he had thought about the tall man hit him. Robots? Hell, everything about this job is strange. First they pay a premium price to get us out here way ahead of schedule, then they fenced us in and said they would shoot anyone who crossed the fence. Then they went berserk for whatever Ferguson did, not to even mention having ordered a fortress dug in this granite mountain. Do they expect to get hit with a bomb? Fuck, I'll be glad when this job is over with.

The foreman motioned for him and started toward the big rock borer. Apparently, something was wrong. The site boss sighed and headed that way also. A few steps later, a couple of big snowflakes driven by the wind hit his cheeks. Glancing at the approaching wall of white in the distance, he thought, It's going to snow again. Does it ever quit doing that shit up here?

Just as he walked up to the foreman and began to ask what was wrong, Ship translated. Both men looked up, and the site boss snarled, "That's just great. Now we have fucking thunder snow. What's next?"

"I'll be glad to get underground and get out of this wind," the foreman remarked as he pulled the hood of his coat tighter about his head.

"Yeah, and who's going to plow out this mess tomorrow? Hmmm," he said looking at the approaching snow, then changed his question to, "Make that later today."

"I could pull Perez from helping to assemble the second of the two smaller borers," the foreman offered, "but he's been learning when I don't have any scut work for him to do. I was hoping I could get Ferguson trained for the snow plow and the other menial jobs so I could continue to train Perez to help with the assembly. Of course, now that Ferguson is..."

"Fuck it," the boss interrupted to say. "Keep Perez helping with assembly. Ferguson had almost finished plowing the place out before they snatched his ass up, so we're good for another couple of hours. But with the way that wall of white that's coming this way looks," he said pointing to the top of the mountain, "it won't be long before we have another few inches on the ground. I'll plow the place out when the snow gets deep enough to hinder us." I'm caught up with my paperwork, and the cab of the tractor is heated, plus it will look like the boss is doing something productive, he thought as the foreman began to talk about a problem he was anticipating.

The Hidden Base

In the giant underground hangar, Nichols, now handcuffed again, walked down the ramp in front of Whitworth and Jeff. The General stopped to give quiet instructions to the troopers who met them. A moment later, the two, a hand on each of Nichols' arms, began to walk away, but Nichols resisted and tried to turn to the General. "Are they going to kill me? I'll tell you everything I know; I swear it."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Whitworth said as he motioned for the troopers to continue on.

Nichols tried to say something else, but it was lost in the brief scuffle before they frog marched him away.

"Do him good to worry a bit," the General casually remarked as the two walked toward his office. "Might make the interrogation go quicker."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"You mean after he spills his guts about Moreau and whatever else he has been into?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, try him for sure, but there's little doubt about his guilt. If he had succeeded in his attempts, ordered by Moreau or not, he would have killed or caused many people to have been killed. Even in our U.S. courts, that would have garnered him a life sentence without parole – at the very least. Looks like I'll be assembling another tribunal in the near future. Want to help me out again? You did kill my other Colonel," he said with a grin.

Jeff didn't answer just then because they had reached the General's outer office, the Sergeant greeting them as they entered. (Under orders from the General, the office people and the Sergeant did not salute while they were busy with their jobs.) As soon as they were in Whitworth's office proper, the Sergeant followed them in with an insulated carafe of coffee and cups, putting the tray on the General's desk.

"Welcome back, General, Colonel."

"Thanks, Sarge," they said in unison.

"Sarge, tell the head tech to swap out the probes on 2214 so we can see how our two newest residents are making out," the General ordered.

"Yes, Sir," the Sergeant responded, then hurried out. When he had gone, the men seated themselves, and Whitworth poured them a cup of the strong brew.

Continuing with the conversation, "The bastard needed killing," Jeff growled as he leaned over to accept the cup the General was handing him.

Whitworth grinned at his Colonel. "Hell, the fight was over so quickly I had to play the fucking vid to see what happened." As he took a sip of his coffee, he frowned. "Damn, it takes a while to get used to this after drinking the coffee at the Retreat. But ... if this doesn't wake you up, you're dead," he finished with a chuckle.

"You could have it made weaker. It might taste a whole lot better," Jeff offered, knowing the answer, but just teasing his General.

"And then my office crew would be half asleep a lot of the time."

The two laughed and went on with their conversation. A little later, the Sergeant stuck his head in the door and nodded. "Data's ready whenever you are, Sir."

"Thanks."

Whitworth brought the view of the probe assigned to Robertson up on the big wall screen. It and the one assigned to Morales had followed a few seconds behind the two men as they went through the portal. The intelligent probes moved a few feet away from the two men in order for their cameras to record both humans.

Morales quickly nocked an arrow and turned to look around them, while Robertson staggered to his feet screaming out, "Those sons-of-bitches did it. Those bastards really fucking did it."

"Guess he finally figured out we weren't kidding, huh?" the General said with a chuckle. "The dumb ass is just standing there complaining. If one of those big cats happened to be there when they came through the portal, he would already be dead. Looks like he has intelligence, but no practical sense. Shit, I should have sent the arrogant bastard with Mazarella instead of saddling Morales with him."

They watched as Morales carefully checked around them. Eventually, Robertson screamed out, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" and threw his bow down. Turning to his case, he snarled, "I'm fucking hungry. How the hell do you open this thing?"

A moment later, Morales brought his bow to full draw, briefly aimed at Robertson's back, and let the arrow go. As the dying Robertson gradually sank to his knees, Morales quickly withdrew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it and looked around himself again before walking over to Robertson, guiding the man's body to its side to keep from breaking the arrow.

The General halted the vid while he commented, "Hell, I don't blame Morales. Robertson would probably have gotten both of them killed, and besides, Morales now has twice the supplies he had a minute ago. That idiot threw his bow down and was going to eat before securing the area."

Jeff sat staring at the big screen. "When I reviewed the vid from the ski lodge, it was obvious that Robertson was the boss and seemed to make all the decisions as he prepared the arson itself. But once we brought them here and we told them what was going to happen to them, Morales began trying to train himself for 2214, while Robertson only continued with his denial."

"Yep, but he won't make any more decisions," Whitworth said as they watched Morales carefully unscrew the broadhead from the arrow shaft, clean both, and reassemble the arrow.

Over the hours, the two watched, occasionally speeding up the vid as Morales painstakingly secured Robertson's case in the tree and trudged through the woods, now shadowed by both probes since Robertson was dead. "He's a tenacious bastard," Whitworth said as they watched him hunt for the arrow he shot at the first creature, then sit to straighten the bent broadhead a few minutes later. They found themselves rooting for him as he finally managed to kill his supper, then chuckled at his struggles to pull the heavy case up the steep hillside to the cave he had found.

Whitworth hit the intercom button that summoned the Sergeant. When he entered, "Sarge, did you replace the probes when you gathered these two?"