Plum Island (16 page)

I
t was a nice morning, and the sun was warmer here in the middle of the island. Paul Stevens led us around the fort. Fort Terry
had no walls, and actually resembled a deserted town. It was unexpectedly picturesque with a brick jailhouse, an old mess
hall, a rambling, two-story brick barracks with a veranda, the commandant’s house, a few other turn-of-the-century buildings,
and a white clapboard chapel on a hill.

Mr. Stevens pointed to another brick building and said, “That’s the only building still used—the firehouse.”

Max commented, “This is a long distance to the lab.”

“Yes,” Stevens replied, “but the new laboratory is virtually fireproof and has its own internal fire-fighting system.” He
added, “These fire trucks are used mostly for brush fires and fires in buildings without biocontainment.”

Max, who’d lived his whole life upwind or downwind from this island, said to Stevens, “But a fire or a hurricane could destroy
the power generators that filter the biocontainment areas. Right?”

“Anything is possible.” He added, “Some people live near nuclear reactors. This is the modern world—full of unimaginable horrors—chemical,
biological, and nuclear nightmares waiting to clean the slate for the next evolving species.”

I looked at Paul Stevens with new interest. It occurred to me that he was nuts.

In front of the barracks was a field of cut grass that swept down to the water some distance away. Flocks of Canada geese
were strutting around the field, cackling and honking or whatever the hell they do when they’re not crapping. Stevens explained,
“That was the parade ground. We keep the grass cut so that aircraft can see the concrete letters that are embedded in the
grass. The letters say, ‘Plum Island— Restricted.’ We don’t want small planes landing here.” He made a little joke. “The sign
keeps airborne terrorists away.”

We walked around a bit and Stevens said, “Before we built the main facility, a lot of the administration offices were housed
here at Fort Terry. Now almost everything— labs, security, storage, administration, and animals—is under one roof, which is
very good from the standpoint of security.” He said to me, “So, even if the perimeter security were breached, the main building
is virtually unbreachable.”

“You’re really tempting me,” I said.

Mr. Stevens smiled again. I loved it when he smiled at me. He said, “For your information, I have a college degree from Michigan
State, and it’s hanging on the wall behind my desk, but you’ll never see it.”

I smiled back. God, I love pissing people off who annoy me. I liked Max, I liked George Foster, I loved Beth, but I didn’t
like Ted Nash or Paul Stevens. Liking three out of five people was really good for me—four out of six, if I counted myself.
Anyway, I’m getting really intolerant of liars, fools, blowhards, and power freaks. I think I had more tolerance before I
got shot. I have to ask Dom Fanelli.

The old parade ground ended abruptly in a steep drop to a rocky beach below, and we found ourselves standing at the edge overlooking
the sea. It was a breathtaking view, but it highlighted the loneliness of this place, the otherworldly and end-of-the-world
feeling associated with islands in general, and this island in particular. This must have been a very isolated duty station,
an extremely boring outpost with little to do except watch the sea. Probably the artillerymen here would have welcomed the
sight of an enemy armada.

Stevens said, “This beach is where the seals come every year in late autumn.”

I asked, “Do you shoot them?”

“Of course not. As long as they stay on the beach.”

As we walked back from the beach, Stevens drew our attention to a big boulder at the end of the parade ground. Sitting in
a cleft of the boulder was a rusty cannonball. He said, “That’s from about the time of the Revolution— British or American.
It’s one of the things the Gordons dug up.”

“Where did they find it?”

“Right around here, I guess. They dug a lot around the seal beach and this parade ground.”

“Did they?”

“They seemed to have a knack for knowing where to dig. They turned up enough musket balls to arm a regiment.”

“You don’t say?” Keep talking, Mr. Stevens.

“They used one of those metal detectors.”

“Good idea.”

“It’s an interesting hobby.”

“Indeed it is. My aunt was a big digger. I didn’t know the Gordons were into digging. I never saw anything they uncovered.”

“Well, they had to leave everything here.”

“Because of contamination?”

“No, because it’s federal land.”

This was interesting, and Nash and Foster were starting to listen, which is not what I wanted, so I changed the subject by
saying to Stevens, “I think the bus driver is trying to get your attention.”

Stevens looked toward the bus, but the driver was just staring up at a flock of geese. Stevens glanced at his watch and said,
“Well, let’s see the rest of the island, then we have an appointment with Dr. Zollner.”

We boarded the bus and off we went, heading east into the rising sun, out toward the spit of land that was the curved bone
of the pork chop. The beach was magnificent, about two miles of unlittered, untrodden sand washed by the blue waters of the
Long Island Sound. No one spoke in the presence of this majestic display of nature. Not even me.

Stevens, still standing, glanced at me now and then, and I smiled at him. He smiled back. It was not a really fun kind of
smile.

Finally, at the narrow end of the island, the bus stopped, and Mr. Stevens said, “This is as far as we can go with the bus.
Now we walk.”

We all got out of the bus and found ourselves in the middle of an amazing old ruin. Wherever I looked, I saw massive concrete
fortifications overgrown with vines and brush—pillboxes, bunkers, gun emplacements, ammunition magazines, tunnels, brick and
concrete roadways, and huge, three-foot-thick walls with rusty iron doors in them.

Stevens said, “One of these underground passages leads to a secret laboratory where captured Nazi scientists are still working
to develop the ultimate, indestructible virus that will wipe out the world’s population.”

He let that sink in a second or two, then continued, “In another underground laboratory is the preserved remains of four aliens
that were recovered from the UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico.”

Again, there was a silence. Finally, I said, “Can we see the Nazi scientists first?”

Everyone laughed—sort of.

Mr. Stevens smiled his winning smile and said, “These are two of the absurd myths associated with Plum Island.” He added,
“People report seeing strange-looking aircraft taking off and landing after midnight on the parade ground. They claim AIDS
was originated here and also Lyme disease.” He looked around and said, “I guess these old fortifications with all the underground
passages and rooms can play on some fertile imaginations. You’re welcome to look around. Go anywhere you please. If you find
the aliens, let me know.” He smiled again. He had a really weird smile, and I thought maybe
he
was an alien. Mr. Stevens said, “But, of course, we all have to stay together. I need everyone in my sight at all times.”

This didn’t quite square with, “Go anywhere you please,” but it was close enough. So, John, Max, Beth, Ted, and George reverted
to adolescence and had some fun climbing around the ruins, up staircases, over parapets and all that, with Mr. Stevens always
close by. At one point we walked along a long brick roadway that sloped down to a pair of steel doors. The doors were ajar,
and we all went inside. It was dark, cool, damp, and probably crawling with things.

Stevens followed us and said, “This leads into a huge ammunition magazine.” His voice echoed in the black void. “There was
a narrow-gauge railroad on the island that carried the ammunition and gunpowder from the harbor to these underground storage
areas. It’s a very complex and sophisticated system. But, as you can see, it’s entirely abandoned. There is nothing secret
that goes on here.” He said, “If I had a flashlight, we could go further, and you’d see that no one lives, works, plays, or
is interred in here.”

“Then where are the Nazis and the aliens?” I inquired.

“I moved them to the lighthouse,” replied Mr. Stevens.

I asked him, “But you can see our concern that the Gordons could have set up a clandestine lab in a place like this?”

Mr. Stevens replied, “As I said, I don’t suspect the Gordons of anything. But because this possibility was raised, I’m having
my men search this entire complex. Also, there are about ninety aboveground abandoned military buildings all over the island.
We have a lot of searching to do.”

I said, “Send your driver for a bunch of flashlights. I’d like to look around.”

There was a silence in the darkness, then Stevens said, “After you see Dr. Zollner, we can come back here and explore the
underground rooms and passages if you wish.”

We walked back into the sunlight and Stevens said, “Follow me.”

We followed him and came onto a narrow road that led toward the eastern tip of Plum Island—the end of the curved bone. As
we walked, Stevens said, “If you look around, you can see more gun emplacements. We once used these circular gun walls as
animal pens, but now all animals are kept inside.”

Beth remarked, “That sounds cruel.”

Mr. Stevens replied, “It’s safer.”

Finally, we reached the easternmost tip of the island, a bluff rising maybe forty feet above a rock-strewn beach. Erosion
had undermined a concrete bunker, and it lay in pieces down the face of the bluff and some of it had tumbled into the water.

It was a magnificent view, with the shoreline of Connecticut faintly visible to the left, and straight ahead a speck of land
called Great Gull Island, about two miles away.

Stevens directed our attention to the south and said, “Do you see that rock pile there? That island was used for artillery
and bombing practice. If you’re a boater, you know to stay away from there because of all the unexploded shells and bombs
in the area. Past that rock pile is the north shore of Gardiners Island, which, as Chief Maxwell knows, is the private property
of the Gardiner clan and is off-limits to the public. Beyond Great Gull is Fishers Island, which, like Plum, was frequented
by pirates in the 1600s. So, from north to south we have Pirates’ Island, Plague Island, Perilous Island, and Private Island.”
He smiled at his wit; appropriately it was a half smile.

Suddenly, we saw one of the patrol boats rounding the headland. The crew of three spotted us, and one of the men raised a
pair of binoculars. Recognizing Paul Stevens, I suppose, the man waved, and Stevens waved back.

I looked down from the bluff at the beach below and noticed that the sand here had horizontal stripes of red, like a white
layer cake with raspberry filling.

A voice called out behind us, and I saw the bus driver walking up the narrow road. Stevens said to us, “Stay here,” and went
to meet the driver. The driver handed Stevens a cell phone. This is the part where the guide disappears, and we see the bus
driving off, leaving Bond alone with the girl, but then frogmen come out of the water with submachine guns and open fire,
then the helicopter—

“Detective Corey?”

I looked at Beth. “Yes?”

“What do you think so far?”

I noticed that Max, Nash, and Foster were climbing over and around the gun emplacements, and, macho men that they were, they
were discussing artillery ranges, calibers, and guy stuff.

I was alone with Beth. I said, “I think you’re swell.”

“What do you think about Paul Stevens?”

“Nuts.”

“What do you think about what we’ve seen and heard so far?”

“Packaged tour. But now and then, I learn something.” She nodded, then asked, “What’s with this archaeological stuff? Did
you know about that?”

“No.” I added, “I knew about the Peconic Historical Society, but not about the archaeological digs here. For that matter,
the Gordons never once mentioned that they bought an acre of useless land overlooking the Sound.”

“What useless acre on the Sound?”

“I’ll tell you later.” I said, “There’s like all these little pieces, you know, and they sort of point to drug running, but
maybe they don’t. There’s something else going on here…. Did you ever hear a ping in your head?”

“Not lately. Do you?”

“Yeah, sounds like a sonar ping.”

“Sounds like three-quarter disability.”

“No, it’s a sonar wave. The wave went out, it hit something, and it came back. Ping.”

“Next time you hear it, raise your hand.”

“Right. I’m supposed to be resting, and you’ve been upsetting me since I met you.”

“Likewise.” She changed the subject and said, “You know, the security here is not as good as I thought it would be, considering
what’s on this island. If this was a nuclear facility, you’d see a lot more security.”

“Yeah. The barrier security sucks, but maybe the internal security in the lab is better. And maybe, as Stevens claims, there’s
more here than meets the eye. Basically, though, I get the feeling that Tom and Judy could have waltzed out of here with whatever
they wanted. I just hope they didn’t want anything.”

“Well, I think we’re going to find out later today or maybe tomorrow that they did steal something, and we’re going to be
told what it is.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” she replied.

“Tell me over dinner tonight.”

“I guess I have to get this over with.”

“It really won’t be that bad.”

“I have a sixth sense for bad dates.”

“I’m a good date. I’ve never pulled a gun on a date.”

“Chivalry is not dead.”

She turned and walked away. She stopped at the edge of the bluff and looked out over the water. The Sound was to the left
and the Atlantic to the right and, as with the Gut on the other side of the island, the wind and currents mixed it up here.
Gulls seemed to stand still in midair and whitecaps collided, causing the sea to churn. She looked good standing there in
the wind, blue skies, white clouds, gulls, sea and sun, and all that. I pictured her naked in that same pose.