Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

One after another, they followed him down into the blackness.

Stephen Ames Berry

The Biofab War

"And so?" demanded Sutherland, his voice tinny in the pay phone receiver.

"Down the ladder, into a tunnel like the first one," John said. Greg, Zahava and Bob sat behind him in the small diner, sipping coffee. "The tunnel was indirectly lit, power source unknown.

"Past a locked door-same alloy as the ladder-about a half mile farther. Another quarter mile and we came to a light-activated entrance like the one Langston's crew sealed. We found ourselves on the weather side of Goose Hill, just above the breakwater. Bob marked the spot with his walking stick.

"We followed the beach several miles to South Duns-more-a delight on a cold night with the tide running high. We're now feasting on greaseburgers in the aptly named Clam Shack."

"Langston thinks you're still down there?"

"Evidently."

"Incredible." Sutherland paused, collecting his thoughts. "I'm coming down with a team tomorrow morning. I'll have FBI Liaison with me and a pocketful of John Doe warrants. Meet me at Otis Air Force Base at oh-six-hundred. Lay low till then."

John returned to the others and a now cold cheeseburger. "He's coming down first thing tomorrow," he said to the expectant faces. "We're to meet him at Otis."

"I'd like to get a good look at that site before then," Bob said between mouthfuls of blueberry pie. "Once the Outfit's house staff gets in there, all data will be tucked away in secret archives for centuries."

"We could walk back down the beach," suggested Greg.

"I'd like to try to open that locked door," Zahava said.

"I second that." John rose, throwing a few bills on the table. "I don't relish facing the cold wind and spray, though," he admitted, sliding from the booth.

"Salubrious-builds character," said McShane, gulping down his coffee. With a pleasant "Thank you" to the waitress, he followed his friends into the chill night.

Taking a chance that Tuckman was still in, Sutherland dialed his office. Despite the hour, the Director was there, answering his own phone. Bill quickly sketched the day's events at Goose Hill, concluding, "I'd like to take a team down there tomorrow morning, sir. It would include FBI CIC Liaison, so we'd be on firm legal ground."

"Do that, Bill," said Tuckman. "But make sure that any arrests are made by the Bureau. I'm due before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence next month." It was budget time. "If this excursion comes back to haunt us, we may both be counting yaks in the Himalayas as grade nothings. Clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Good luck. Call me from the Cape."

Ringing the duty watch, Sutherland had calls put out for his team with instructions to meet him at Andrews Air Force Base by midnight. He then called Emmy-chan, his Eurasian friend, if "friend" is the word for someone you've lived with for twelve years.

She took it with a stoicism born of necessity and sustained by love, telling him, as always, "Come back to me." As always, he said he would. Going out to his car, he headed for the Beltway and Andrews.

"The more I see of this tunnel, the more it puzzles me." Bob's voice echoed down the passageway. They were approaching the door they'd passed during their escape. A diffuse golden glow bathed the corridor.

"The lights seem to come on whenever anyone enters," said John.

"Then there's a functioning power source," Zahava said. "But how could any piece of equipment operate through all the centuries this place's been abandoned?"

"Note the walls," said McShane, running his hand along the surface. "Rock, but with the texture of glass. Not a chisel mark, no sign of power tools. Far better than anything our technology's capable of."

"Someday we'll replicate this, Bob." Greg spoke for the first time since they'd left the beach. "When we finally translate particle beam theory into hardware. This is star wars stuff-applied atomics." Gone was the laid-back, mint-julep-and-magnolia accent.

They stood before the door, an oval slab of metal flush with the wall. Greg flashed his light expectantly at the usual place. Nothing happened. "Any ideas?" he asked, flicking the torch off.

"There is something here, I think," said John. "May I?" Canting the beam, barely grazing the space just above the door, he brought out the hieroglyphics, invisible in the corridor light. "Can you read that, Bob?"

"Yes, but I don't see how it helps. It says, Tell who you are and why you come.'"

They stood mute for a moment, then John snapped his fingers. "Tolkien!"

Loudly, he said, "John Harrison and a party of three. We're exploring this installation, which we believe abandoned."

" 'Speak "friend" and enter,'" Greg recalled softly as the door disappeared. A refined contralto voice filled the corridor.

"Please come in."

Hesitantly, John leading, they stepped down into a high-ceilinged room no larger than the altar chamber. Silently, the door closed behind them.

Several compact consoles occupied the half of the room nearest the door. Their control panels flickered into life.

"Please proceed to the empty area fronting the equipment," directed the voice.

"Who are you?" Zahava demanded, unslinging the Uzi. She spat an Arabic curse as the gun vanished.

A high-pitched whine filled the room, rising quickly to mind-searing intensity. Futilely clapping their hands over then-ears, they dropped to the floor, writhing in agony, eyes bulging, screaming unheard into the merciless pitch.

Abruptly, the killing noise stopped.

"When you have recovered," the voice kept repeating, "please proceed to the area in front of the equipment." Helping each other, they stumbled forward, obeying.

"Thank you."

They were gone. The room was empty.

Soon all the lights dimmed out, and the centuries resumed their slow, silent passage.

Boarding the sleek little corporate jet, Sutherland exchanged nods with his three team members. Marsh and Johnson were CIA; Tim Flannigan, nose buried in a sports magazine, was FBI Liaison, the only one with arrest authority.

Heading forward to brief the pilot, Sutherland spotted an unfamiliar man sitting away from the others. Something about the man tugged at his memory; thin, almost ascetic features, high forehead, thinning blond hair. Looks like a Jesuit, he thought.

As he approached, the stranger glanced up, recognition in his cool gray eyes. A hand fell on Bill's shoulder, and he turned away from those eyes.

"Tuckman!" No mistaking the elegant features and silver hair.

"None other," the Director said with a smile.

"What are you doing here, sir?" Sutherland asked, sensing deviousness on a large scale.

"All in good time, Bill. Let me introduce our guest."

The stranger rose, stepping into the aisle. "Deputy Director Bill Sutherland, may I present Colonel Andreyev Ivanovich Bakunin-Andre-of the Second Chief Directorate of the-"

"KGB," said Sutherland coldly. "The man responsible for the destruction of our network within Solidarity and the deaths of ten good-''

"Traitors," the Russian interrupted evenly. "Ten good traitors, Mr. Sutherland. They sold the revolution, the revolution repaid them. To each according to his worth." His accent was cosmopolitan.

"Sir," Sutherland said angrily, turning to Tuckman, "I protest the presence of a Soviet officer-"

"Enough, both of you." The Director reached past Bakunin, picking up a handset. "Jensen," he said to the pilot, "let's roll. Call me when we're ten minutes from Otis.

"Strap in, gentlemen," he ordered as the jets whined higher. "I'll hold mission briefing when we're airborne."

A few minutes later, when all were seated around the conference pit to the plane's rear, sipping coffee, Tuckman began, glancing occasionally at his notes. "In 1944, on the south coast of France, a German raiding party swept into a cave. They believed the cave to be a Resistance staging area. Too late, they discovered their mistake."