Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Goldman took the lead this time, hopping onto the ladder and working his way down, and a moment later they were all standing in one of the massive corridors that Doc had called home as a naive, eager eighteen-year-old, for the first six months of his military career. Except for a smattering of graffiti the place hadn’t changed much. He could remember the personnel moving through here as carrier cars moved along on the overhead rails carrying equipment barged to the shore. All these years later he still knew exactly where he was.

“This way,” he said to the others.

Using their Mini Maglites sparingly, they worked their way up the tunnel and turned right, moving into another tunnel, which opened out into a space on the left that Doc remembered had once been a bunkhouse. It was one of several that had been integrated into the place. His own assigned bunk had been closer to the Golden Gate Bridge side of the tunnel, which was where he spent most of his duty hours as well.

Doc was about to continue on when he caught a glimpse of something in his flashlight beam. Swinging it back into the bunkhouse again, he froze as dread chilled his spine.

“Holy crap,” Abernathy murmured directly behind him.

They moved quickly to a figure lying prone on the cement floor, a blond, life-sized Raggedy Ann, a flannel shirt tossed carelessly over her naked body, looking as if she’d been discarded like a used tissue.

Her face was mottled with bruises. There were black-and-blue marks under her ears.

Doc felt for a pulse and got exactly what he was expecting-nothing. He also had a pretty good idea who this was. He told the others it was probably Tally Griffin, the bunker expert.

This thing was suddenly more real than it had ever been. He activated his ear com and said, “Tony, Jack, do you read me?”

All he got was static.

“Tony?”

More static.

“Damn,” he said to the others. “Coms aren’t working down here. The walls must be interfering with the frequency.”

“Screw it,” Abernathy said, his voice tight with anger. “Let’s find the bastards who did this.”

Tony Antiniori heard the last strains of “Hail to the Chief” being played as he worked his way down the corridor to the room where he’d seen the white-coated server with the laundry cart disappear earlier.

He’d waited several minutes for Jack. Obviously something was holding him up, and with the music signaling the arrival of the President, Tony didn’t have time to wait anymore.

Just as he reached the room he heard voices and several of the white coats came around the corner. He held his hand to his ear, as if he had a cell phone, and pretended to talk into it. The men walked by chattering to one another, eyeing Tony indifferently as they passed. He waited until they were gone then moved to the door and checked the knob.

Unlocked.

Taking one last glance around he slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and flicked on the light. It was a large square room with several canvas laundry carts inside, and shelves along one wall stacked with napkins, tablecloths, towels, and other linens. On the far wall, behind one of the laundry carts, was the chute Karras had told them about. It was nothing more than a square hole in the wall with plastic flaps in front of it.

He studied it warily and activated his com line. “Hey, Karras, I’m in the linen room. You sure I won’t break my neck going down this thing?”

“No guarantees,” Karras said. “Hell, my grandpa broke his neck stepping into the bathtub.”

“You callin’ me ‘grandpa’?” The kid didn’t know him well enough to be talking to him like this.

“No offense,” Karras said, “but those older bones of yours might be fragile.”

“Yeah?” Tony fumed. “Remind me to kick your fat behind next time I see you. Then we’ll talk about bones.”

That shut the kid up, but he thought he heard Max laughing under her breath.

Pushing back the flaps, he checked the chute more closely. The angle wasn’t too severe, so he figured the speed of his trajectory would be manageable. Hell, he couldn’t count the number of free falls he’d done at twenty-five thousand feet, so this should be a piece of cake-assuming there was something down there to buffer his landing.

Removing his tuxedo jacket and cummerbund, he tossed them into a nearby bin then grabbed the lip of the chute and climbed inside, positioning his legs in front of him.

He said a quiet prayer and let go.

The ride was short but exhilarating, a ten-second rush of adrenaline that ended with Tony flat on his back in an industrial-sized laundry bin that was already half full of dirty linen. Sitting up, he peeked over the top and scanned the area.

Typical commercial building subbasement, from what he could see, all cement, with ducts and pipes and fluorescent light fixtures, a couple of big industrial-sized sinks; quite a contrast to the beauty of the museum above. But this was only one room in a massive floor plan, with doors leading to other rooms, and Tony had no idea which way to go. Fortunately, the place seemed deserted, no white-coated servers or maintenance workers moving about.

Climbing from the bin, Tony grabbed a napkin and walked toward the sink.

“Okay, that was fun. And no broken bones, thank you very much. Where do I go from here?”

“You’re actually pretty close,” Karras told him. “Depending on how you’re positioned, there should be a door to your left, followed by a long corridor that eventually opens out into an old boiler room. You’ll find the sealed-off elevator to your right with the auxiliary hatch to the left of it. If anyone’s coming up, that’s where you’ll find them.”

“What’s going on upstairs in the courtyard?” Tony asked as he ran the napkin under water.

“The Prez is shaking hands and making small talk, but he’s making his way inside.”

Minutes mattered now.

Seconds.

“Is that running water I hear?” Max asked.

“Yeah. I’m wetting a napkin so I can wring it real tight. Makes a helluva whip if you crack a guy across the eyes with it.”

“Sweet,” Karras said.

“Yeah, if I don’t run across more than a rogue or two. Either of you heard from Jack?”

“Not a peep,” Max told him.

“Wonderful.”

What the hell is he up to?

Tony wrung out the napkin, twisted it tight, and looped it in his hand, ready to use if necessary. He located the door on his left and made his way to it. He turned the knob, opening it just a crack.

The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the ceiling and one wall lined with huge round plumbing pipes. As Tony moved into it, he wished they had figured some way to smuggle weapons into the place. He’d hate to run into a small army of terrorists while carrying nothing more than a wet napkin.

Quietly closing the door behind him, he worked his way down the corridor, following it as it curved slightly to the left. As he approached the mouth of the corridor, which opened onto the old boiler room, he heard the faint sound of a radio playing. An easy-listening station.

Someone was down here.

Edging to his right, Tony took cover behind a large plumbing duct and peered into the dimly lit room.

What he saw froze his heart.

A uniformed museum guard lay on the floor next to an old cage-style elevator. The doors to the cage were shut and secured with a thick chain and padlock. And just to the left of this was a small hatch in the floor. It had also been secured by a chain and padlock, but they lay discarded next to it and the hatch was hanging open.

This was not good.

Scanning the room and seeing no sign of a threat, Tony stepped from behind the duct and quickly moved to the guard. Crouching down, he grabbed the young man’s wrist and felt a faint throbbing.