William Johnstone - The Doomsday Bunker

“Probably not,” Larkin said. “But I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it. I especially don’t want to bet the lives of you and the kids on it.”

The doorbell chimed again. Larkin sighed, stood up, and went to answer it.

A tall, burly black man with graying hair smiled and nodded as Larkin opened the door. Larkin had never seen him before. The man wore one of the red security vests.

“Patrick Larkin?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

The man stuck out his right hand. “I’m Chuck Fisher. Graham asked me to come and collect you. We’re having a meeting in the Command Center.”

Larkin shook hands. Fisher had a strong grip, and he also had the brisk air of a military man that Larkin instinctively recognized. Larkin said, “Corps?”

“Army,” Fisher replied.

“Dogface, eh?”

“That’s right, jarhead.”

Susan had come up behind Larkin. She said, “You two aren’t going to fight, are you?”

Fisher smiled again and sketched a little salute to her. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Larkin. We’re on the same side. We’re just upholding a long tradition, that’s all.” He looked at Larkin again. “You need to bring any firearms you have in your quarters as well.”

“Yeah, I expected that.” Larkin had leaned the AR-15 against the wall near the door. He picked it up and said to Susan, “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” she said, and her tone made it clear enough that she didn’t have to add, Where else would I be?

As Larkin and Fisher went up one level in the elevator, Larkin commented, “I’m surprised Moultrie didn’t just send somebody around to collect the guns. I didn’t figure I’d have to turn them in in person.”

“It’s not just about the guns,” Fisher said.

“Then what is it?”

“I’ll let Graham explain that.”

“You retired or active duty?”

“Retired. You?”

“Same.”

Fisher nodded. Larkin felt an instinctive liking for the guy. He came across as tough, no-nonsense, and not the type to waste time with unnecessary talk.

The Command Center was at the eastern end of the upper-level corridors, a huge complex of offices, hallways, and chambers that began between Silos C and D and extended deep under the rolling hills. The generators and air- and water-purification systems were located here, along with the medical and dental facilities, the pharmacy, the hydroponics gardens, even the big warehouse-like space where rabbit hutches and chicken coops were located.

Those animals were not pets. Over the coming months, they would be a vital supply of fresh food. The people entrusted with raising and caring for them had very important jobs. A great deal of nonperishable food had been stored down here, but the chickens and rabbits, along with the gardens, meant the difference between mere subsistence and a truly healthy diet.

The Command Center was also the beating heart of the Hercules Project, where staff members monitored the equipment that measured surface conditions, along with all the life-support systems. They also searched for any signs of life coming from the surface, any communication via Internet, wireless, broadcast, or amateur radio. All the surveillance cameras up top had been destroyed by the blast, so the project was blind… but not deaf.

Larkin was able to pick up on that when he and Fisher entered a large room reminiscent of news coverage he used to see on TV of Mission Control at NASA in Houston. Most of the big monitors on the walls were dark. The ones that were lit up displayed data, not visual images. Ranks of computers were set up on tables where men and women worked with them.

“Looks like you could launch a rocket from in here,” Larkin commented.

“There was a time you could,” Fisher said. “Or a missile, anyway. This was the original fire control center. Graham expanded and updated it, of course, and added a lot of equipment.” He pointed to a steel door. “The meeting room is over there.”

As they went in, Larkin saw ten men seated at a long conference table that looked like it should have been in some corporate boardroom. The place could have passed for one of those boardrooms, in fact, with its dark paneling and a few sedate landscapes hanging on the walls. All that was missing was a fancy portrait of the chairman of the board and maybe the company president. Graham Moultrie wasn’t really the sort to indulge in such vanity, though.

Adam Threadgill was one of the men at the table. He grinned when Larkin came in but didn’t say anything. The other men had the same sort of competent, experienced look to them.

Moultrie stood at the head of the table with his hands resting on the back of the leather-upholstered swivel chair positioned there. He said, “Come on in, Patrick. You’re the last of the men I’ve summoned here right now. You can put your rifle over there.”

He nodded toward a smaller table next to the wall. Several rifles lay there already, so Larkin assumed they had been brought in by the other men. As he added the AR-15 to the collection, he said, “What about my Colt?”

“Keep it for now,” Moultrie said.

Larkin wasn’t going to argue with that. Even though he didn’t expect to need the .45 down here in the bunker, the whole experience was nerve-wracking enough that it felt good to have the gun on his hip.

“Have a seat,” Moultrie went on. Larkin took an empty chair diagonally across from Threadgill. Moultrie stepped away from the head of the table and walked along it as he continued, “I would have gotten around to talking to all of you in the near future, if events hadn’t unfolded the way they have. I’ve been putting together my security force slowly and carefully, making sure that I have just the right personnel. You men will complete that force, if you agree to take part.”

This came as no surprise to Larkin. In fact, it was what he’d expected as soon as Chuck Fisher showed up at his door and told him about the meeting.

“Every man in here is experienced, either in law enforcement or the military. You’ve dealt with trouble. You’ve dealt with bad actors. You’ve put your life on the line to protect others. That’s the sort of man I want responsible for the safety of the Hercules Project.” Moultrie gestured toward the man standing at the other end of the table. “Chuck Fisher is the director of this group. Chuck was an Army Ranger and since retiring has worked as a private contractor on a number of high-risk operations. He’s an old friend and the top man at what he does.”

So Fisher was a mercenary, Larkin thought. He had known men who wanted to get into that line of work. Some were as solid as could be, others… not so much. Fisher struck him as the solid sort, which was good.

“Of course, you don’t have to accept appointment to this force. It’s not mandatory, and needless to say, the job doesn’t pay anything.” Moultrie smiled. “Not financially, anyway. You do get the satisfaction of knowing that you’re helping keep everyone safe, and you get more leeway in being able to have firearms in your possession. Right now, people are too stunned by what’s happened today to cause any trouble, but starting immediately, I want all of you to be armed whenever you’re on duty—and you need to have a gun pretty handy when you’re not on duty, too. Because we’re all going to be on call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Understood?”

Nods came from the men around the table. Moultrie had started pacing back and forth as he spoke, but now he paused and rested a hand on his security chief’s shoulder.

“Chuck will be in charge of setting up duty shifts. In this area, he’s my second-in-command. He’ll get together with all of you and make sure you know the schedule. I’m hoping you’ll all see fit to join this effort, but like I said, it’s up to you and if you choose not to, it won’t be a problem. Anyone who doesn’t want to be part of the security force can go ahead and return to your quarters now.”