Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (8 page)

How many times had he heard this story? From White Sands to Bikini Atoll to Groom Lake, Major Thom Gant had visited many top-secret, hush-hush, need-to-know-access-restricted compounds. Each one with those fences and guard dogs; each one with legions of PhDs, high-tech laboratories, redundant containment systems, and tightly constructed emergency protocols.

And the head honcho scientist always said the same thing: "We took every foreseeable precaution," or, "no one could have anticipated this type of chain reaction," or even, "we never saw a retrogression such as this in the simulations."

Yet there they were, Mr. Clean Up and his team, ready to bail out the scientists who climbed
that
mountain because it was there, whether
that
mountain be insects genetically engineered for pest control that just happened to develop a taste for human flesh or a new biological weapon that
—whoops—
got loose down there in Sector C and turned the technicians rabid.

This is all very embarrassing, but would you and your men mind going down there and shooting them all dead?

Oh, Gant did not know his orders yet and he did not know what the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility was all about, but one thing was for certain: they did not call him all the way to the boondocks of Pennsylvania for target practice. At least the situation was not an emergency; the rest of the Archangel unit would not arrive for another twenty-four hours.

His ride moved into the compound proper. The grounds were shaded by trees, most of which had exploded into brilliant autumn colors. Red, orange, and yellow foliage decorated the scene. Piles of leaves congregated under trees and fence posts; wind gusts carried handfuls through the air.

In the distance, rising above the kaleidoscope of colors, was an old radar dome atop a concrete roof, the only part of the research facility visible from any sort of distance, sort of like a dorsal fin warning of a lurking shark.

A guard station marked the main gate. The soldiers there eschewed military BDUs for rent-a-cop costumes. Two hundred yards further in stood parallel rows of small, identical cabins arranged in orderly lines like a regiment of marines assembling. They reminded Gant of the cabins he had stayed in at camp as a kid. That thought caused a few beads of sweat to pop up on his neck in memory of the brutal heat of Georgia summers long past.

As they drove along a dirt road toward the heart of the facility, Major Gant spied a few squat buildings scattered about, most likely housing power generators or ventilation equipment for the underground portion of the complex, although he could not rule out more arcane purposes. He also saw a large rectangle of clear-cut forest where two big landing pads stood ready to welcome helicopters.

The main building was rather anticlimactic, a bunker of a facility in a concrete frame trying its best to hide among the trees. This made it difficult for Thom to discern the size of the complex's surface footprint. The front appeared to stretch one hundred yards wide and at least as deep.

He did not see any guards walking the paths crisscrossing the grounds, yet Thom was not fooled. No doubt sensors had detected the approach of his vehicle and several well-disguised cameras probably focused on him at that very moment.

The SUV pulled to a stop in a dirt, grass, and gravel parking area where a handful of unremarkable sedans and cars sat idle.

Gant asked Corporal Sanchez, "How many sublevels? Four?"

"I’m sorry, sir. The lieutenant colonel can answer all your questions."

He had not really expected an answer, but Thom wanted to ask the question anyway, if only to gauge Sanchez's reaction. In this case, the young man seemed trained to know the limits of his role and disciplined enough to avoid his own natural curiosity, as was evident by the fact that Sanchez had not asked Major Gant one single question during the entire drive over from Williamsport.

Both men exited the vehicle. Sanchez opened the rear doors of the Chevy and retrieved the major's baggage.

"Sir, shall I take your gear to your room?"

"Where’s that?"

"Number 115." Sanchez pointed away from the main building. Thom followed his finger and saw a path through the overgrowth leading to the first row of cabins.

"Yes, thank you, that will be fine."

The facility's front door opened and a female officer with short blond hair walked out and along the slate path in his direction. She wore an army green uniform with the slacks as opposed to the skirt that was optional for female officers.

As she approached he noted the silver oak leaf on her collar. His back instinctively stiffened and his arm rose in a sturdy salute, although mentally he remained at ease. It seemed his body remembered the procedure with the muscle memory of riding a bike, but these days his spirit lagged a step behind.

She returned the courtesy and then extended a hand, which he accepted, and he was surprised at how well she matched the strength of his shake.

"Major Gant? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder. Welcome to Hell Hole."

"At your service, Colonel."

She gestured toward the front entrance and the two strolled together.

"I must admit," Thunder said as they walked, "I'm not exactly sure why your team was sent here."

He played the game: "Task Force Archangel is a Department of Defense red team. We are penetration testers used for security assessments and war gaming."

"Major Gant, your file was sent to me directly from General Friez, and I'm not talking about the file that is distributed to senate subcommittees or listed on a balance sheet as part of the Defense Department's budget allocations."

Her tone made it quite clear she knew exactly who he was and what he was all about.

"I see."

She led him inside to a dusty reception area. A clerk’s desk covered the front door but looked as if it had been unattended for years. Hallways led away from the lobby, one of which was blocked by another, smaller desk where a soldier in green BDUs sat. Obviously this was the one passage that led to anywhere of significance.

Lieutenant Colonel Thunder said, "I’m aware of Task Force Archangel and your team’s, well, specialty. Yes, you are an opposing force, but not in the traditional war gaming sense. Several years ago during a different assignment I did the psych evaluations on everyone in your unit, from Campion to Westbrook."

They approached the desk. She motioned for him to sign in. As he wrote his name he told her, "Westbrook was KIA over a year ago."

"Oh," she mumbled and added, "I didn't see that in the file."

Acidic sarcasm sizzled in his words as he replied, "Casualty reports are considered superfluous when it comes to our mission reports."

She handed him an identification card.

"We’ll need to take your photo, but for now this will get you as far as you need to go. At least for today."

She led him around the desk and down the hall. Every step echoed ahead and behind, adding to Gant's feeling that the two of them and the guard at the desk might be the only ones on the floor.

"Not too many people home right now?" He asked.

"There’s never anyone home here, Major. This upper level is completely abandoned, except for security."

They passed several dark rooms, a few of which looked like haphazard storage depots for dusty old boxes, discarded furniture, and piles of files. Gant had the distinct feeling of being in a house on moving day, except moving day was on perpetual hold. Everything boxed up but no place to go.

At the end of the hall waited a secure elevator. She slid her access key card through the lock. A light buzzed green and allowed her to lift a small glass panel under which was a solitary red button that she pushed. It glowed, and the sound of a rising car vibrated through the metal doors.

She opened her mouth, thought for a moment, and then said, "Major …Thom?"

He sighed and replied, "Rest assured, Colonel, I have heard every possible joke."

"I'm sure."

Gant asked, "How many sublevels are there?"

"Hmmmm," she considered. "That depends on what you mean."

"I thought the question was rather straightforward," he said with no attempt to hide his annoyance at her acting coy.

The elevator door slid open.

"I suppose I would say there are four-and-a-half sublevels."

Gant huffed, "Four-and-a-half?"

"Yes," she said as they entered the elevator car, and she pressed the only button on the console. The door slid shut and their descent began. "Yes, although there are eight sublevels in all."

He cocked his head to the side and forced a smile that was anything but friendly. He did not like games, particularly when he flew blind into a new situation and dealt with people he did not know.

As was normally the case, the more annoyed he grew, the more stilted his speech, so when he asked, "Did someone misplace the other levels?" it came out less like a sentence and more as six individual words.

She folded her arms, glanced toward the ceiling as if thinking it over, and replied, "Now that you mention it, maybe they are misplaced. Perhaps the best description is to say we
control
four-and-a-half levels."

Gant kept his smile—more of a dam holding back a tidal surge of annoyance—and asked, "So, are you going to tell me who controls the rest?"

"That's a good question."

That was it, the final straw, superior officer or not he was going to give her a piece of his mind—but then he caught himself. His annoyance subsided and his smile grew into a sincere grin and he nearly laughed.

"You said you did the psych profiles for my team. I assume this is your way of updating my file?"

Colonel Thunder flashed a devilish smirk. "Sorry, Major. You could say I'm establishing a baseline. Normally I'm not this much of an asshole. The truth is, I'm as new here as you are, and I’m having a tough time trying to get a handle on it myself."

"Who was your predecessor?"

"I’d better not tell you that until you hear the whole story or, at least, what we know of the whole story. Or what I know. Or what—aw shit, we’ll just talk and maybe you can figure it out, because I sure can’t."

The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Another security desk with another soldier waited. Both officers presented their identification and signed another logbook.

Colonel Thunder led him along the corridor beneath buzzing fluorescent lights. They came to an office door, which she unlocked using a good old-fashioned key.

"You said, ‘welcome to Hell Hole.’ What is that supposed to mean?"

"This place," she said as she led him inside and closed the door hard behind them. "It’s called ‘Hell Hole’ by everyone who’s served here. I’m starting to see why."

She sat behind the desk, checked her watch, and went on, "I’m expecting General Borman any moment now. He might fill you in on some more details, but in the meantime you’ve been cleared for full disclosure."

"I've been told to take my orders directly from Borman. Normally he's my boss's boss."

They shared a chuckle of understanding as she remarked, "There's definitely no shortage of bosses in the army these days."

"In the meantime, why Hell Hole?"

Lieutenant Colonel Thunder leaned forward and spoke to him across the desktop.

"First things first. Major Gant, you are here for two reasons. To start with, you have experience dealing with unconventional enemies. Quite frankly, I’m surprised they don’t have a better name for that but I guess it sort of covers the range of what you handle."

He said, "I am certain that someone at the Pentagon spends every weekday from nine until five researching an appropriate acronym. Until they have completed that project, I suppose we have to stick with something basic."

"I suppose so. As I said, I’ve been fully and completely briefed on your unit and activities. I know about Arrows in ’04, I know about Manitoba, and I know about your party in the Everglades a few mornings ago. I also know your history as an operator before you got into the fancy stuff. Impressive, really. Like I said, I did your psych evals a few years back. At that time I didn’t know the particulars of Archangel. It wasn’t until I came here that I got the full scoop."

He quipped, "Welcome to my world."

"Quite frankly, if I had heard about your adventures a few weeks ago I’d have been impressed and possibly floored with the implications, but I’ll leave that to the scientists and the philosophers. In the meantime, you need to believe me when I tell you that all of your experience can’t prepare you for this place."

"You said there were two reasons I am here. The first, I guess, is because I know enough to believe in the boogeyman. What is the second?"

"I’m not exactly sure how to put this," she said, searching for the right words. "Let’s say that you’ve got a nice, ordered, disciplined mind."

"So does your average computer. Where you going with this?"

"The reason I’m in command of this base is because of my experience with PsyOps, and I don't mean your run-of-the-mill white, gray, or black stuff."

Gant knew that basic psychological operations used by the army ranged from press releases to media plants to bull horns and leaflets, all of which were classified as white, gray, or black. Apparently her level of involvement was something more complex.