Submerged (22 page)

“We’ve reached a dead end,” Dean said. “It
seems we’ve walked a long way for nothing, sir.”

Finn said nothing. He was standing before a
stone wall. The steps just ended, as if the builders had grown
weary with the process and gone home forever. He had read about
this wall, but the reading sounded more like fiction than a
military report. Still, there it was, standing immovable and smooth
like the surrounding walls.

“What now, sir?”

“Follow me,” Finn ordered.

“Excuse me, sir,” Tuttle said. “Follow you
where? Topside?”

Finn started forward, his arm extended.

“Sir?” Dean asked. “What are you doing?”

The reports had better be
right,
Finn thought,
or I’m going to look
very foolish.
He took three more steps and plunged into the
wall. A series of obscenities followed in his wake. He smiled. Dean
and Tuttle must have been stunned to the core.

The swearing stopped as abruptly as it had
begun. Finn took a couple of steps and turned. A wide-eyed Dean
stepped through the wall. A second later, Tuttle followed.

“How . . . I mean . . . ,” Tuttle
stammered.

“I don’t have a clue,” Finn admitted. “The
old report said we’d encounter that, but I didn’t believe it. I do
now.”

“Where are we?” Dean’s eyes darted
around.

“A place no one has been in over thirty
years,” Finn said. “I think it’s time to bring you up to
speed.”

“Yes, sir. I’d like that. I’d like that very
much.”

Perry followed the ramp down until it came to
an end at a wide metal door. The door was painted a royal blue and
sported two metal grates that allowed air to flow between the
tunnel and whatever lay beyond.

The light that followed them reflected off
the door’s surface. This same light had followed them every foot of
the journey, which Perry estimated to be three miles. They had been
walking down the gentle grade for an hour and twenty minutes.
Walking on the sloping surface made Perry’s legs ache.

“There’s a combination lock on the door,”
Carl said, “and the door looks like it’s made of metal. What about
it, Gleason? Did you pack any tools for that?”

“Maybe. I brought a battery-powered
drill.”

“Let’s be accurate,” Jack said. “I
brought
the tools. You only packed
them.”

“Semantics,” Gleason said. “Nothing but
semantics.”

“My back disagrees.”

Perry stepped to the door. A large
combination lock that reminded him of a safe was located on the
left side, just above a stainless steel handle. He turned the dial,
and it moved sluggishly. “I doubt anyone has touched this in three
decades.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Janet said.
“Considering what they would have to do to get to it.”

Perry felt the cool, smooth surface of the
door. A powder came off on his fingers, and he brushed it off on
his pants. He saw something just above the lock. “More initials.
Just like the ones at the mouth of the tunnel: A.S.—H/S.”

“Say, Perry,” Jack said, “you don’t
suppose—”

“Yeah, I do suppose.” Perry started turning
the dial.

“Suppose what?” Carl asked.

“That the combination on this lock matches
one on a safe belonging to Perry’s dad,” Jack explained.

Perry dialed: thirty-six, forty-two,
thirteen. The dial action was stiff, but it turned without
difficulty. Perry pushed down on the handle and felt it give. “Dad
is consistent.”

When he opened the door and it swung on
creaking hinges, Perry felt as if he were in a haunted mansion. He
swung the door wide, then backpedaled, his heart slamming like it
was bouncing against the walls of his chest. “Whoa!”

He heard Janet release a little scream. The
others gasped. In his shock, Perry had released the door. It
started to close. He grabbed it, even though it meant moving closer
to the specter in front of him.

Standing in the doorway, staring with blank
eyes, was a heavyset man. He appeared to be soaked from head to
foot.

“Help me,” the man begged. “Help me.”

Then he turned and walked away.

1974

Henry was standing in the jungle. Where once
there had been beige sand, Joshua trees, juniper bushes, and a
nighttime sky, there was now thick undergrowth and trees that rose
to a blue sky with a blazing sun.

“What happened to him?” Cynthia asked. She
and the others were standing on a slope that had been a set of
stairs. The Victorian house was now a large military tent.

“I don’t know. He just snapped.” Henry turned
to Nash. “He’s your man. Has he been unstable before?”

“If he was, he wouldn’t be on this mission,”
Nash grumbled. “The guy has been rock steady.”

“Yeah? Well, his rock just crumbled,” Zeisler
quipped. “I’m no psychiatrist, but I recognize crazy when I see
it.”

“What should we do?” Grant asked.

“We find him,” Henry said. “He’s armed and
not in his right mind. He could hurt himself.”

“Or he could kill us,” Zeisler said. “I’m not
going looking for a man with an M16 in his hands and a pistol on
his hip.”

“He has a point,” Grant agreed.

“He’s not a danger to us,” Nash insisted.
“He’s too highly trained and has too much experience.”

“Maybe that’s true in the real world, Nash,”
Zeisler said, “but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not in the
real world, or at least a world we’re familiar with. The
environment seems to change at will. Maybe whatever controls what
we see controls us, as well.”

“I’m getting weary of your smart mouth,
Zeisler,” Nash snapped back.

“That’s enough, Mr. Nash.” Sanders was
standing in the door—the tent flap—whatever the real opening was.
“We need to make some decisions.”

“What would he do?” Henry asked.

“What do you mean?” Nash said.

“You’re a Nam vet, right? If it were you out
there, and you believed you were back in Vietnam, what would you
do?”

Nash thought for a second. “McDermott was a
platoon leader. He’d be concerned about his men. He’d want to hook
up with them again.”

“So he runs from the house terrified—”

“I’m telling you the man just doesn’t
scare—”

“Okay, fine,” Henry said. “He leaves the
house, finds himself in Vietnam again. You think his old instincts
would kick in?”

“Yes.”

Henry looked at Sanders, who nodded. “I
agree.”

“Did you serve with him in Nam?” Henry
asked.

“Not directly. Same area.”

“Did you swap stories? Did he tell you about
his last mission?”

Nash thought. “It was an advance patrol. They
were pinned down by sniper fire. McDermott was wounded in the lower
leg. A shot grazed his right leg just above the boot. But I have no
idea if that’s what he’s thinking.”

“It’s likely,” Henry said, “that you and
Sanders saw different things based on your past experiences. We saw
the Mojave Desert because I had just read my son’s school report
before coming down here, and I’ve been thinking of him.”

“Why is that, Sachs?” Zeisler asked. “Why did
it choose you instead of Monte or Cynthia or me?”

“As I said, I was the first new person in the
space. Of course, that’s just a guess. Who knows? The real question
is, why did the environment change to the jungles of Vietnam?”

“Emotion,” Cynthia said. “You’ve been sad
about leaving your son, and McDermott was more affected by that
crawly thing than the rest of us. Maybe the control force takes its
cue from our emotions.”

“That’s just a guess,” Zeisler said.

“That’s all we have right now,” Henry said.
He turned to Sanders. “I think Nash and I should go looking for
McDermott. You and the others can stay here and continue analyzing
the house . . . tent.”

Henry didn’t wait for approval; he started in
the direction he had seen McDermott run. “Come on, Nash. Let’s go
get your man.”

Nash pushed his way past Henry. “I’ll take
point.”

“Fine by me.” Henry hoped he knew what he was
doing.

Chapter22

“That’s him,” Janet
said.

“Who?” Perry asked.

“Matthew Barrett—the man we came looking
for.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, we’re sure,” Carl interjected. “We had
a full description from his wife and a photo from the Nevada
Department of Motor Vehicles.” Carl started forward, and Perry
stepped to the side. Janet was close behind. Perry and the others
followed.

“Where did he go?” Janet spun around,
looking. “I know I saw him. He couldn’t have gone far.”

Perry gazed around but saw no one. What he
did see was an ocean of powdery sand, mottled brown and white.
Overhead was a slate gray sky with a dim sun shining down.

“How did we get outside?” Jack asked. “We are
outside, right?”

“I’m not so sure,” Perry said. “The sky is
wrong, and the sun doesn’t look right. Too small, too dim.”

“We couldn’t be outside,” Jack reasoned. “Not
the direction we were going. We should be under the lake.”

“You are,” Zeisler said. “You’re deeper than
you know and can trust nothing that you see.”

“There isn’t much to see,” Perry said. “Sand,
sand, and more sand.”

“That opinion will change soon enough.”

“This is what you saw thirty years ago?”
Perry asked Zeisler.

“Not like this. This is different. Something
is wrong.”

“What do you mean wrong?” Perry pressed.
“What was—”

Carl shouted, “I found tracks. They must be
Barrett’s.” Perry joined him. Carl was shaking his head. “I
couldn’t have entered this place more than ten seconds after
Barrett turned around, but now I can’t see him. There’s nowhere for
him to hide.” He stopped and studied the surroundings. Perry
guessed that he was seeing the place, really seeing it for the
first time. “Wow.”

“Yeah, that pretty much says it,” Perry said.
“And don’t ask—I don’t have any answers.”

Janet walked to them. “I followed the tracks,
and they just stop about five yards that way.”

“That’s weird,” Carl said.

“That’s not all. I checked around and
couldn’t find any tracks leading to the door. A few leading away,
but none toward.”

“Hey, guys. I think I found your man.” Jack
pointed. “He’s right over there.”

Perry had to strain his eyes to look through
the twilight. In the distance a figure moved away from them. Perry
took his small binoculars from his vest and directed them toward
the moving form. It was the man Janet identified as Matthew
Barrett. “How long did you say this guy was missing?” Perry handed
the binoculars to Carl.

Janet answered. “We first came up here two
days ago. He was due back home two days before that. He lives the
better part of a day’s drive away, so we can add another day. Call
it five days.”

“He’s been down here for five days?” Gleason
said. “No wonder he asked for help. What’s he been eating?”

“Maybe he has supplies,” Jack said.

“I know one way to find out. Let’s ask him.”
Carl gave the glasses back to Perry. “I’m going to try and catch
up—”

“We should stay together,” Perry said.
“Something doesn’t feel right about this place.”

“I have a job to do, Perry. I can’t let you
stand in the way of that.”

Zeisler put a hand on Carl’s shoulder.
“Settle down, Deputy Subick. I know where he’s going.”

“Where?”

“There is only one place to go to down
here—the house.”

“There’s no house here,” Jack said.

“You didn’t look far enough, big man. Look
past poor Mr. Barrett, and you’ll see a structure.”

Perry raised his glasses.

So did Jack. “Man, you got better eyes than
me.”

“I didn’t say I could see it, Jack, just that
it was there.”

“You called it a house,” Perry said. “It
doesn’t look much like a house to me. More like a . . . big
box.”

“It was shorthand. We weren’t sure what to
call it. The word
house
stuck.”

“With all due respect,” Carl said, “Barrett
isn’t getting any closer.”

“Lead on, Dr. Zeisler. This is your land.”
Perry motioned for Zeisler to move forward.

“Trust me, Perry, this isn’t anyone’s
land.”

1974

Henry couldn’t be certain, but he thought he
had just seen

a monkey working its way through the canopy
overhead. It made no noise. He was on a skinny path, beaten into
existence by the passing of feet. Two yards in front of him walked
Nash. He moved slowly, turning his head from side to side,
scanning, listening. Henry had followed suit.

“You never served, did you, Sachs?”

“In the military? No. I never did.”

“One of the peace freaks?”

“Don’t start with me, Nash. Most of my
construction work is for the military, so keep the name-calling to
yourself.”

He saw Nash look down. Henry followed his
gaze. They had been following tracks left in the ground covering.
Henry was having trouble thinking of it as sand.

“Sorry, I’m just a little sensitive about it
all. I made three tours of duty, took a round in the leg from a
North Vietnamese sniper, came home and was greeted with sneers and
called a baby killer. To my recollection, I didn’t kill any
babies.”

It was a touchy subject, and Henry knew it.
“You went where you were sent, and you did your duty. History will
decide if it was a just war or not.”

“Conflict. It hasn’t been declared a
war.”

“Call it what you will, but when armies shoot
at each other, I call it war. Let the politicians play word
games.”

Nash squatted. “The tracks are clear. Look
here. Do you see how he’s walking to one side of the path, then the
other?” Henry said he did. “He’s hugging the jungle line.”

“Why would he do that?”