Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1 (9 page)

After a short pause, Kitchens said, “Well,
don't you worry about Greg. One way or another, I think we're gonna
cheer him up.”

She only half heard what the senator said.
“So, that's my story. What's up? What are you doin’—” She froze as
it registered what Kitchens had said, startling her out of her
reverie.
They’re together. Oh, Lord, I hope I didn't just mess
up!
She held up her hands, closed her eyes and said, “No, no,
no. Don't answer that. And don't tell me a lie ‘cause I'll lose
respect for you. It's none of my business.”

Kitchens’ smile vanished as reality returned
to him as well. Their little trip down memory lane had caught them
both off guard.
I'm here to do a job, not reminisce. And Cindy
realized it before I did.
He took a moment to gather his
thoughts. Someone he knew personally was involved in the business
he had come here for. For Kitchens, things just got a little more
complicated.

Fearing she had overstepped her bounds,
Cindy changed the subject. “You didn't know I managed another
convenience store here in Warner Robins, did you Greg?”

“Really?” He feigned interest, understanding
her potential dilemma.

“That's right, on Watson Boulevard. I
managed it for seven years. That's where I met the mayor. I mean
Kevin.” She looked at Kitchens coyly, completely regaining her
composure. “I was right up the street from City Hall. Kevin came in
my store every weekday mornin’ to get a newspaper and a soda. We've
been good friends ever since, and that was right after I first
moved here from New York.”

Kitchens stood up and spoke in a tone that
was much more formal than it had been a moment before. “Cindy, it
was great seeing you. Maybe we'll be able to get together soon.” He
extended his hand.

Taking the hint, Cindy stood up and grasped
Kitchens’ hand, pulling him to her for a quick hug. “I'd like
that,” she replied.

“Well, Greg, I think that we had better get
started, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, I better get back to work too.” Cindy
walked back to the storeroom door. “I have two more deliveries due
in today. You guys stop by for a soda on your way out.”

“This way, sir.” Greg gestured in the
opposite direction. “All of this is just as it seems. Except that
all of the personnel are airmen, federal employees, and civilian
contractors. But, like Cindy, none of them have any idea what's
happening”—exaggeratedly, he pointed at the floor—“down there. With
one exception.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. The driver of the truck parked on
the side of the building.”

“Really?”

“Come take a look at this.” They stopped at
the end of the hall at another open door.

Kitchens saw that the room was essentially
identical to Cindy's office. He could hear the faint sound of a
diesel engine through the wall.

“Have a seat. There's much more here than
meets the eye.” Greg raised his eyebrows for emphasis as he closed
the door.

“Yes, I gathered as much.”

Greg's smile faded. “Sir, I'm sorry. I
mentioned the driver of the truck outside.”

“Yup?” Kitchens said, his patience wearing
thin.

“Eight trucks are rotated in and out at
different times of the day, each one painted differently to make
them less noticeable. They have four functions. The first is to
provide emergency back-up power for the facility. See, while the
store draws power from the local electric company, the facility is
supplied with power independently. Second, they help mask the sound
of the diesel engines in the basement that provide primary
power.”

Greg had the senator’s interest now. When he
flew in that morning, he had expected to be driven to some
out-of-the-way building on the base for this visit, not to some
kind of James Bond clandestine facility.

Greg continued. “The third is to transfer
personnel and supplies in and out of the facility.”

“Come again?” Kitchens asked.

“There are over a dozen technicians and
security personnel down there at any given time. They are brought
in that way so as not to arouse suspicion. Everything for the
facility has to be delivered in those trucks.”

“They don't just come in through the front
door?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, how?”

“The forth function of the trucks is to
provide noise cover for the facility’s other mechanisms.”

“Noise cover? What other mechanisms?”

Greg picked up the phone on the desk,
punched in a code, and listened.

Kitchens barely heard a male voice say,
“Stand by.”

Greg replaced the receiver and said. “Oh,
and to answer your question, yes, the store does make a
profit.”

The senator turned with a start when he
heard the sound of metal bolts sliding into the door behind him.
“What?”

“You asked me if the store turns a profit,
when we were outside. When I did the numbers on the facility”—the
senator wasn't listening, but was staring at the door in stunned
silence—“they also gave me all of the store’s financials. I had
lots of time on my hands, so I did the P and L. Cindy's a heck of a
manager.” As Greg spoke, he was taking great pleasure in the
senator’s reaction to what was happening around them. “Actually,
she's due a bonus.” He thought for a moment. “But then, I guess
it’s easy to turn a profit when all of the employees are paid by
the government. There’s no payroll expense, except for Cindy.”

The senator’s eyes were wide as he glanced
around the room. The sound of machinery doing whatever it was doing
to the structure of the room continued. And Greg was enjoying
it.

A series of clicks emanated from the
senator’s left. He turned toward the new sound just as the wall
abruptly moved out away from the rest of the room. The sound of
diesel engines was suddenly amplified and there was a thud, thud,
thud as the entire wall disappeared into the floor. The space
beyond was the dull gray cinder block of the outer wall, five feet
from where the wall had been. A metal grated platform spanned the
width.

Greg yelled over the din, “We have fifteen
seconds, sir.”  He handed the senator a small plastic bag
containing a set of earplugs, stepped on to the metal grate, and
motioned for him to follow as he checked his watch.

When Kitchens didn't move, Greg took his
hand, pulling him out of the chair and forward. “Eight seconds,” he
shouted as they moved onto the grate. Seconds later, the wall rose
and returned to its former position. Kitchens froze, his back to
the cinder block wall.

It was dark, but there was some light coming
from below and to the right. Nothing was yet distinguishable. The
senator fumbled with the plastic bag, placed the plugs in his ears,
and shut his eyes, letting them adjust. The air was cool and dry
with the slightest hint of diesel fumes. When he opened his eyes,
he saw the major looking disdainfully at the unlit light bulb on
the wall to Kitchens’ left.

Greg tapped the bare bulb to no avail.
Turning, he smiled and motioned for the senator to move to his
right and down the metal staircase that he could now see in the low
light.

It led them down about twenty feet to a
large room. Scanning around, Kitchens could see the room was square
with cement columns placed strategically about to support the
ceiling. There were pipes and conduits running in all directions
around the room.
For fuel and exhaust?
He wondered.

Everything was featureless and gray, and the
fluorescent lights around the perimeter did nothing but intensify
the drabness. In the center were six diesel generators along with
three rows of metal racks, thirty feet long and eight feet high,
where row upon row of heavy-duty batteries were resting. Four gray
conduits ran along the floor leading from the batteries and
disappearing into a twenty-foot wide corridor to the north.
Kitchens guessed that it was of older construction than the room
itself, its walls being much rougher. It sloped downward slightly,
descending deeper into the earth. At ten feet, the corridor’s
ceiling was only half as high as the room’s, and was lit by more
fluorescent lights along its length. To the right of the corridor
were three golf carts parked in the northeast corner of the room.
Next to the carts were six red tool safes, three-and-a-half feet
tall, lined one next to another along the eastern wall, and a large
seven by eight gray metal cabinet, its doors closed.

Greg was standing next to a metal platform
that was resting flush with the floor. It was six by ten feet with
three foot metal railings mounted on three sides. A chain was hung
across the opening. Above it was a similar six by ten foot metal
plate in the ceiling. The senator reasoned that the semi truck was
parked directly above them and that this was the mechanism used to
transfer personnel and supplies into and out of the facility.

Greg pointed to one of the golf carts and
began moving in its direction. He climbed behind the wheel and,
with the senator beside him, started down the corridor. As they
drove away from the noise of the engines, they removed their
earplugs.

“How far down are we going?”

“The corridor continues down to about three
hundred feet but slopes back up to two hundred where the complex is
located.”

Kitchens’ nerves were settled now, as he
began prioritizing the myriad of questions he had in his head.

Greg allowed him some time to collect his
thoughts. Due to the speed restrictions, it would take nearly
fifteen minutes to go the three point three miles to the facility,
so they had some time.

The air was damp and much cooler now, with a
musty smell. Kitchens saw yellow markers on the walls, left and
right, at what he guessed to be one hundred yard intervals. In the
middle of each section was a barrel-sized opening near the ceiling
covered with a metal grate. “Why does it go so far down and then
back up?”

“The complex is located in an old bomb
shelter built in the 1950s. This corridor was designed as a gas
trap.”

“A gas trap?”

“Yes, sir. In the event of a chemical or
biological attack, the entire corridor can be flooded.”

“Flooded?” Kitchens was slightly alarmed at
the thought. “That's why this place is so close to the river isn't
it?” It was then that he noticed the walls glistening with moisture
and the large shallow puddles of water along their path. At what he
guessed must be the midpoint of their journey, the floor changed
from solid concrete to metal grates stretching the length of an
entire one-hundred yard section. Beneath was a void, but it was
impossible to tell how deep.
A drain?

Greg saw concern on the senator’s face. “Not
to worry. I think they flooded it once decades ago, but they
probably stopped maintaining the pumps when the Cold War
ended.”

That information did little to comfort the
senator. “How much further is it?”

“About five minutes.”

“You’d better call the general and tell her
I'll meet her for dinner rather than lunch.”

“
SO, THE FACILITY ACTUALLY
is
on the base. Or rather, under it,” Kitchens concluded.

“Yes, sir,” the major affirmed as he drove
the last few hundred yards of tunnel.

“Then, why isn't there an entrance on the
base?”

“Well, sir, there is. Anyone who cares
enough to ask knows where it is. It's common knowledge.”

“Then why did we have to drive out to the
store and come in this way?”

“Because the powers-that-be don't want to
call any attention to the work that's being done here. They didn't
want anyone seeing personnel and materials going in and out of the
place. At least that's what I've been told.”

Before he arrived, Kitchens believed the
cost of the project was due to the construction of the tunnel, but
it was now obvious that the tunnel was much older than the
generator room.

As if he had read Kitchens’ thoughts, the
major continued. “The tunnel was part of the original construction.
It led to an emergency exit that was hidden where the store is. The
generator room was constructed along with the store.”

They had been steadily traveling for about
six minutes when a wall appeared out of the darkness. At least it
looked like a wall, dull gray like everything else. As they
approached, a horn sounded, startling the senator as it
reverberated through the tunnel. Yellow caution lights began
flashing as the sound of heavy machinery mixed with the blaring
horn.

“Sorry. I should have warned you about
that.”

Kitchens was hardly paying attention to the
noise as the wall ahead began to move. It swung slowly open toward
them from right to left. The enormous door spanned the entire width
and height of the tunnel. Its inner mechanisms resembled something
he recalled seeing in a movie. There was a line of ten bolts going
up the inside of the doorframe, each individual bolt six inches in
diameter. On the wall, floor, and ceiling opposite where the door
would line up was an equal number of sockets. The door itself was
more than three feet thick.

“It weighs over twenty-five tons,” Greg
explained.

Kitchens expected a team of armed guards to
greet them from the other side. Seeing none, he was a bit
disappointed.

The entire process of the door’s opening and
closing took nearly three minutes. Beyond the entrance was a large
rectangular room with incandescent bulbs burning on the walls,
doing little to illuminate the space. Inside the nondescript
room were seven more golf carts of varying designs. The two stored
in the northeast corner had flat beds. Greg pulled their cart
behind the others and parked. When he got out, he plugged the power
cord into a socket in the floor and allowed Kitchens some time to
process what he was seeing.