P Deutermann - Darkside

He stood at the junction between the main tunnel and cross tunnel that led down to Michelson Hall. He could almost feel the weight of the concrete ceiling and the ground above pressing down on his head from inches away. The by-now-familiar odors of steam, hot lagging, and ozone permeated the air. From off to his right came the occasional clanking of traffic passing over a steam grate out on King George Street. He looked at his watch again: 10:59.

At precisely eleven o’clock, all the tunnel lights winked out. The main tunnel and all its branches went completely dark. He didn’t move, but he did close his eyes. The only sound now was the hum of a nearby electrical panel. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. The first thing he noticed was that the darkness was not complete; he could still see. Up and down the tunnel, there were small lights, most of them green but some amber, mounted on the front of the electrical panels. The green lights indicated conditions normal, while the amber lights indicated that power was present in the panel. There was a red glow in the far distance to his left, which probably came from the transformer bank recessed into the tunnel wall next to the telephone amplifier vault.

Okay, he thought. Only partial success. He had wanted to see if it was possible to put the tunnels into complete darkness on command. He had talked to the PWC people and they had figured out a signal that could be detected on their utility control panels in the Academy’s power plant. All Jim had to do was to go up to any electrical panel, open the main breaker, and then close it again. An alarm indicating a power interruption would flash on the PWC’s control console, and that would be the prearranged signal to kill all the lighting circuits in the tunnel for fifteen minutes, as long as the alarm popped up during a designated time period. Jim had designated the time window before going down into the tunnels.

His objective had been to lie in wait for the runner, using his motion detectors. Once he detected movement, he’d plunge the tunnel system into darkness. Then with night-vision goggles and whatever faint ambient light came from the indicator lights on the electrical panels, he would have the advantage over his quarry. The problem was that there were too many indicators producing too much ambient light. He might have the advantage for the first minute or so while the runner’s eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, but then the runner would be able to see, at least well enough to react. Jim couldn’t get away from the feeling that the runner knew this labyrinth better than he did.

Okay, he thought, I’ll have to get some electrical insulating tape. Go down the tunnels and tape over all but a very few of these lights. But that’s going to take a lot of time. Shit. This isn’t going to work. Unless he got some backup. He could always call in the Yard cops, but the tunnels didn’t lend themselves to having lots of people operating down there. The runner had always managed to sniff out Jim’s presence very quickly, so more cops meant fewer chances of surprise. Assuming the vampire had some place in town to ditch the costume, he could always go back through the main gate if he had to. That would mean risking being hit with a conduct offense, but there would be no way to tie him to what had been going on out in town.

Think, Jim told himself. You’re after one guy. You’ve locked him out of one of his main avenues of escape, at least until he figures out how to get through those locks. You know the way he’s been coming back-through that grate on the St. John’s campus. So put a surveillance team on the grate? But that would mean Yard cops operating out in town, on the St. John’s campus, where they had zero jurisdiction. He didn’t want to bring Annapolis cops into this, either, in case it was a midshipman. The Ops boss had made it very clear they didn’t need another scandal popping up just now. Which meant he needed to take this guy on federal property.

The lights all came back on in a hum of fluorescent starters. He blinked at the sudden brightness and realized he’d been thinking in circles. He had an idea, but first he wanted to check something. He walked down the tunnel toward the King George Street access doors until he came to the shark tag drawn on the concrete wall. There had been no change since the last alteration, after he’d put his own tag down. He fished for the can of spray paint, which was still in his backpack. Standing close, he sprayed ONE-ON-ONE, followed by the numerals 2400. Below the shark figure, he sprayed on IF YOU’RE MAN ENOUGH. Then signed it HMC.

He stood back and examined his handiwork. He’d have to alert PWC to make sure they didn’t clean off the tag now that it was getting bigger. Then he’d come back tomorrow night, around nine or so, to see if there’d been some indication his runner had seen it. Some kind of a reply. Then maybe aim at Wednesday night to set up for his first real try. Get some backup, but put it in the Yard, out of general sight but close enough to the major grates within the Yard for quick response time.

He started back toward the Mahan Hall interchange. Just for the hell of it, he began counting indicator lights. He’d seen thirty-seven by the time he reached the interchange. Far too many. Plus, the night-vision headset would make for a cumbersome hand-to-hand situation. But he still might use the lights-out maneuver. Mask out his own eyes for five minutes, then send the signal, see how well he could function. The question he still hadn’t answered was where his runner was getting into the tunnels. Had to be down at the Bancroft Hall end, although those tunnels were jam-packed with pipes and cables. The only other tunnels down at that end were the old Fort Severn magazine tunnels. Wait a minute, he thought. The night of the rocket, Bagger had pointed out some bright metal scratches on the lock of one of the doors to the Severn magazine tunnel. In the excitement, Jim had forgotten that. He decided to go down there and look again.

The splotches had been cleaned off the concrete where the rocket had gone ricocheting down the S-turn. When he got to the alcove leading down to the magazine doors, he found the overhead light was out. There were no lights in the alcove, which ran for about ten feet before reaching the two doors. He turned into the alcove, went down three stone steps, crossed the ten feet, and knelt down in front of the oak door on the left-hand side. He shone his Maglite on the antique lock. Hard to tell. It was humid enough down here to encourage corrosion, so shiny metal scratches could have dulled down by now. He couldn’t see any scratches, and yet they had been visible before. He put his finger to the keyhole and rubbed it around. Something came off on his finger, some gooey-gray substance. And there were the shiny scratches.

Well, hello, he thought. Someone has been covering his tracks here. Then the hair went up on the back of his head. He sensed the presence of someone or something behind him. Not right behind him, but very close. His heart began to pound slightly. The ambient light seemed to be different, but the bright beam of the Maglite made it difficult to tell. He worked to control his breathing and the urge to whip around to take a look. He kept the Maglite on the keyhole but focused all his senses on what was behind him. A vision of that terrible vampire face floated up in his mind. Trying not to make any sudden moves, he dropped his right hand casually to his ankle, as if to scratch an itch, and began to lift the hem of his coveralls to get at the Glock. When he had his hands on the butt, he yanked it out and spun around in place, pointing it up at the arched entrance to the alcove. But there was nothing there. Just a rectangle of dim light framed by the old stone walls.