William Johnstone - The Doomsday Bunker

Provided, of course, that Nelson Ruskin also understood Morse.

Larkin began by tapping out CQ several times, the universal hail for hams. When there was no response, he tried H-E-L-L-O, then Ruskin’s last name. The clanging impacts of hammer against steel were loud in the antechamber, but he knew the sounds would be muffled by the time they passed through the blast door. He paused to listen.

Moultrie’s voice came over the intercom speaker. “Anything, Patrick?”

Larkin held up a hand in a gesture for silence, knowing they could see him on the monitors in the Situation Room, and leaned closer to the door.

It was faint but there: Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I hear him,” Larkin said, keeping the excitement out of his voice. “What does Jill see on the camera?”

“Ruskin has moved on down the steps to the door. She can’t see what he’s tapping with. The heel of his shoe, maybe.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty quiet, but he’s definitely responding. Let me try again.”

He hammered out Ruskin’s name again, then stopped and listened intently. It wasn’t really a tapping he heard but more of a thudding instead, lending credence to the idea that Ruskin might be using his shoe. The sounds came in a steady rhythm. Larkin grimaced. The man on the other side of the door wasn’t sending code.

“I don’t think he knows Morse,” he reported through the intercom. He tapped a query but the only answer was the steady thumping. It stopped abruptly.

Then as Larkin frowned and pressed his ear to the door, he heard something that took him by surprise.

Bump-bump-ba-bump-bump… bump-bump!

He straightened, threw back his head, and laughed, unable to suppress the impulse.

“Patrick, what the hell?” Moultrie asked with a tinge of alarm in his voice. Maybe he thought something was wrong with the air in here after all and it was making Larkin crazy.

“He gave me the old ‘Shave and a Haircut,’” Larkin said. “That’s something I never really expected to hear again, especially coming from outside.”

Chuck Fisher spoke up, saying, “This isn’t a joke.”

“No, but it’s human. Ruskin can’t understand code, so he doesn’t know what we’re saying, but he knows there are people in here and he’s telling us that he’s human, too. Damn it, he’s asking for help.”

“We’ve been through this,” Moultrie said, his voice flat. “However many people are up there, they’re not coming in. Not now.”

“Wait too long and they’ll all die,” Larkin said, then realized that might be exactly what Moultrie was hoping for.

“Can you ask him what he wants?”

“I can ask, but he won’t be able to answer because he won’t know what I’m saying.”

“Go ahead and try… Wait a minute.” There was a pause, then Moultrie went on, “He’s gone back up a few steps so he can write in that notebook and show it to us. Jill’s relaying the information to me. He’s written… I know you’re sending code … I can’t understand it… I’ll see if I can find somebody who does .”

“Then there’s more of them!” Fisher said.

“We knew that,” Larkin said. He listened at the door again. “I don’t hear anything else.”

“Ruskin is going back up the stairs,” Moultrie reported. “Let’s get you out of there, Patrick.”

“No, let’s give it a few minutes.”

“We don’t know how long it’s going to take Ruskin to find anyone who understands Morse, or if he even will.”

“Yeah, but he might get lucky. Let’s just wait a little while and see.”

“You’re the one who’s stuck in there,” Moultrie said. Larkin could hear the shrug in his voice. “As long as you’re not getting claustrophobic…”

“I’m still good to go,” Larkin said.

“We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything.”

Larkin stood there waiting, concentrating on his breathing and forcing himself to take deep, regular breaths. He’d never had a problem with claustrophobia, and he wasn’t feeling any twinges of panic now. Still, he was aware of the tension ratcheting tighter inside him. He hoped that Nelson Ruskin would be able to locate someone who understood Morse because he didn’t want to have to work himself up to start this effort over.

After twenty minutes that seemed much longer, Moultrie said, “Someone’s coming back down the stairs. It’s… wait a minute… it’s Ruskin and another man. Jill says this one is older, with white hair and a beard. He’s wearing… an old army jacket. He has something with him… looks like a wrench—”

Larkin heard the sharp impact of metal against metal and said quickly, “Hold on!” He didn’t need Moultrie talking while he was trying to listen. He leaned closer to the door again.

C-Q-C-Q

Larkin’s pulse jumped as he recognized the letters.

The man on the other side of the door followed with Who goes there?

Larkin lifted the hammer. His telegrapher’s fist was slow and laborious, but he got the message through, letter by letter.

Patrick Larkin. Who am I talking to?

Earl Crandall, U.S. Army, retired.

I’m one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.

Dogface!

Leatherneck!

Who you got in there with you, son?

Some friends. Larkin wasn’t going to give away any more information than he had to. How about you?

Same here. We’re in bad shape, Marine. Could use some help.

How many?

Crandall hesitated, then tapped out, Just a few.

Larkin didn’t believe him. That pause had been telling. The outsiders were wary, too. If there were honestly only a few of them, Larkin didn’t think Crandall would have hesitated to say so and might well have provided an exact number.

Sorry, can’t open up.

We need help. Women and children sick. Not much food.

Larkin believed that, and his guts twisted a little at the thought of what those people had to be going through. What they had already gone through. He was glad Susan wasn’t here. With her instincts, this would be hell on her.

He realized he was the only one inside the project who knew what was going on here, the only one who understood the conversation, at least for now. Moultrie might have equipment picking up and recording the words Larkin and Crandall were tapping out, so they could be analyzed later, but for the moment he was the sole representative of the Hercules Project and could tell Crandall whatever he wanted.

But unless Moultrie agreed with it, those would be only empty words.

Sorry , Larkin tapped again. No can do. Before Crandall could respond, he went on, Nelson Ruskin is with you?

If Morse code being tapped out by a guy with a wrench could sound surprised, what came back from Crandall did. Ruskin is here. You know him?

Tell him his wife is alive and safe.

There was a moment’s silence, then Crandall tapped urgently, Get her. Let them talk.

No can do , Larkin sent again.

Does she know he is alive?

Not yet. Will tell her. That was a lie, but Larkin didn’t see how it could hurt anything.

Thank you. If you can’t open up, can you send help or supplies to us?

Will work on it , Larkin replied. Maybe that wasn’t a lie, he thought. Maybe the engineers and technicians could work out some way to get a few supplies to the surface. They were ingenious; they ought to be able to do that.

But then his spirits sank again. Even if it were possible to deliver them, Moultrie would never give up any of the project’s supplies. Especially when the food wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. The survivors truly were doomed if they stayed around here. They would be better off heading for one of the less-damaged parts of the state. If they had any more vehicles, they could get away from the residual radiation here on the edge of the destroyed Metroplex. The chances of long-term survival would still be very slim, but any chance was better than none.