James Tabor - The Deep Zone

They stepped into a long corridor flooded with more watery UV germicidal light, cream-colored walls, tan floor. Though mostly administrative work was done here, some research was ongoing and the air carried odors of alcohol and formaldehyde and disinfectant. People in white lab coats and business suits moved in both directions, some pushing carts, others speaking into Bluetooth-style microphones attached to earpieces. It could have been a hallway in any government building, except that it was almost ten P.M. and everyone was in a hurry.

“How on earth were you able to get me back in here?” Hallie was a little surprised by how good it felt to be back in a place where important science was being done— dangerous important science, at that.

“Friends in high places.”

“But… even after what happened?”

“I couldn’t stop that at the time.” Barnard’s voice tightened with anger every time the subject came up. “But now that we have a situation , they were more willing to listen to reason.”

“You put your career on the line for me, in other words. Again.”

“And I never had a better use for it, Hallie.”

“Hear, hear.” Lew Casey reached up to pat her shoulder reassuringly.

They passed through an unmarked door that opened onto a sparsely furnished anteroom with another inner door, guarded by a U.S. Army Special Forces sergeant wearing a crisp uniform and a green beret. He carried a sidearm and had a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun slung across his chest.

Barnard said his own name out loud, pronouncing the syllables carefully, and a green LED light came to life on a panel on the sergeant’s desk.

“Good evening, ma’am, sirs.” The sergeant nodded to each in turn. “Please go right in.”

They walked through the inner door into a rectangular conference room. White ceiling, beige carpet, big flat-screen monitors on sky-blue walls. On a long mahogany table sat pitchers of water, juice, coffee, and plates filled with sandwiches and cookies. Five men sat at the table, and among those was her old research partner, Albert Cahner.

“Hallie!” He jumped out of his chair and came around the table to give her a hug, which she returned, laughing.

“Al! I’m so glad to see you again!” She thumped him on the back.

“It’s wonderful to see you , Hallie.”

They stood there grinning. He was as she remembered, though perhaps with a little more gray in the comb-over now, the circles under his eyes darker. Otherwise, he was the same old Al, wearing a wrinkled blue shirt with a flyaway collar and a skinny tie that had gone out of fashion ten years earlier. He gave her shoulder a final pat and went back to his place at the table.

She took an empty chair and poured herself more coffee. Don Barnard leaned against a wall. Lathrop addressed them.

“I know that you all have traveled hard and must be tired. So let me make a few things clear right away. My name is David Lathrop. Officially I work for Central Intelligence, but for now I report to the secretary of Homeland Security, Hunter Mason. Directly. He reports to the president. Directly. They both know we’re here.”

Lathrop introduced Barnard and Casey, then turned back to those seated at the table.

“We thank each of you for responding to our requests, which must have seemed strange, to say the least. We are grateful beyond measure for your presence here.”

While Lathrop spoke, Hallie eyed the three men at the table she did not know. She pegged them in her own mind as Blond Man, Dark Man, and Big Man.

“More introductions are in order.” Lathrop gestured toward Blond Man. “Dr. Haight”—he pronounced it height —“is a medical doctor from Tennessee. Emergency medicine specialty. An accomplished technical climber, caver, and diver.”

Hallie had thought he looked familiar, and now realized why. “You’re Ron Haight!” she blurted. “You were on the cover of National Geographic last year. They called you ‘the caver saver.’ ”

“Well, yeah, I was.” Haight looked down at the table, grinning and shaking his head.

“Dr. Haight is justly famous for his rescue work,” Lathrop said.

“Please call me Ron.” Haight looked uncomfortable with all the attention, which Hallie found positively endearing.

“You were all muddy, with a helmet and dive mask on. It took me a minute to recognize you,” she said.

“Hard to believe they’d put an ugly mug like this’un on the cover of such a fine magazine, I know.” Haight’s accent was Tennessee thick, his words flowing softly and slowly.

But Hallie thought he had a right nice mug. Haight’s hair was almost as light as hers, worn in a ponytail. He was one of those rare blonds who have dark eyebrows; his were perched high on his forehead and far apart, like quotation marks at the ends of a sentence, making him look perpetually, pleasantly surprised. Beneath those eyebrows were angular features in a lean, open face. He was not tall but had the build of a serious climber, a compact bundle of muscle with about 5 percent body fat. He looked to be in his late twenties.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Haight,” said Hallie. “Sorry, I mean Ron. You saved a couple of friends of mine once.”

Haight nodded, formal, graceful, as if he were bowing to a princess, the deathless courtesy of southern men.

Lathrop turned to Dark Man. “Dr. Rafael Arguello is a paleoanthropologist from the University of New Mexico and a member of the Cuicatec Native American population in Oaxaca, Mexico. He speaks several languages but, most importantly, Cuicatec.”

Arguello was perhaps thirty years older than Haight. He had high cheekbones, olive skin, black eyes, and neatly barbered, shining black hair. His unshaven cheeks looked like someone had smudged charcoal over them. He wore a rumpled business suit and a white shirt with no tie, a professor whisked all the way from New Mexico on the strange wings of power.

“Dr. Arguello has done groundbreaking research on Native American shamanic practices. He underwent shamanic preparation and initiation himself. He also served as a cultural liaison officer with Mexico’s military. And as a paleoanthropologist, he has explored many very serious caves.”

“I should say how pleased I am to meet you, everyone.” Arguello’s accent was unlike any Hallie had heard. Neither Spanish nor English, but something more like the Comanche dialogue she’d heard when she had gone to New Mexico with Stephen Redhorse.

Finally, Lathrop nodded at Big Man. “Dr. Wil Bowman is in our government’s service, on loan to us. He has the requisite skills—diving, climbing, caving. Plus, ah, appropriate security experience.”

Bowman sat directly across the table from Hallie, wearing jeans, running shoes, and an old red rugby shirt. He looked to her like a six-four, 220-pound slab of muscle. His face was a collection of juts and angles: outsized cheekbones, thrusting chin, and prominent nose with a zigzag from more than one break. He had a straw-colored crew cut and a scar divided one of his eyebrows into two short dashes. Bright, hard, unblinking eyes the blue of glacial ice. He had the body of a professional athlete and the face of a warrior. Not beautiful, certainly, but a face that would have held her glance if she had seen him in a restaurant or on the street. His age was less apparent than the others’, but she guessed about forty.

It was her turn. Lathrop said, “Dr. Hallie Leland, BS in microbiology from Georgetown University, PhD in microbiology, Johns Hopkins University. Extremophiles are her area of research. She is an accomplished climber and master technical diver. Her research has taken her into many caves.”

“Is there anything you don’t do?” Bowman looked at her, his eyebrows raised.