Undisclosed (5 page)

“You know, I can get into those too.”

Travis’s head turned in the direction of the source.

It was his best friend, Ryan Logan. He stood there grinning, wearing his usual solid olive-green military jacket with gold buttons and a worn ranking patch on the arm, dark T-shirt and stonewashed jeans. Travis had known Ryan for as long as he could remember; their mothers had placed them in the same preschool. On the surface most would have written him off as a loser. His report cards would always say the same. He lacked motivation, could try harder and had little potential; but Travis knew it was just a front.

“Hey, man, glad to see they finally let you back in.”

“What were they going to do?” Ryan smirked, leaning against the lockers. Ryan had been temporarily suspended for hacking into the school’s computers, swiping test files and changing his own grades. No small feat, but he thought he could get away with it. Only problem was, he gave himself A’s in every class.

“Hey, check this out.”

Ryan took out his phone; Travis groaned, knowing exactly what was coming before he even saw it. Ryan was in the habit of recording himself during gameplay and sending it to the opposing players to taunt them. Get them all riled up. He said it livened things up. It was always the same. A video of him in the game level and another with the camera facing him in the corner hooting and hollering like a kid jacked up on too many energy drinks.

Travis grabbed a few books. “Man, you really need to get out more,” he said. “You should come out on the track with me.”

“No way, risk breaking this”—he circled his face with his hand—“doing those crazy jumps? I’ve got the ladies to think about.”

Travis chuckled. “What ladies?”

Ryan was the only kid he knew that would pine after the girls, get shot down and keep going back for more. He said it was a numbers game, like the lottery, and any day now he would be holding the winning ticket.

“Got wind of your little escapade,” Ryan said. “Kind of sloppy, but nice.”

“Well, let’s say it didn’t go over too well with—”

“Well, look who’s back.” A voice cut him off. Travis turned to face a group of seniors. It was the goon patrol.

“Back so soon from your tour of duty?” the guy asked, lifting the silver dog tags that loosely hung around Ryan’s neck. He turned to the others, still holding the tags. “The great hero returns, well how about that?” Smiling, he turned back towards Ryan, slipping an arm around his neck and smoothing his shaggy hair.

“Please,” he said, “forgive our manners, you deserve a hero’s welcome—hey, boys?”

“Oh, I think so,” one of them said, before cracking up, while the others jeered.

“Give it a rest, Deagan,” Travis said, slamming his locker shut.

Deagan Kaine stared at Travis, tilting his head to one side. “Oh, feeling a little left out, Marshall?” he asked in a childish tone. “Oh, I get it, you’re still bitter about Thunder Valley.” He and the others laughed, knowing full well the topic was a sore point, a sure way to get him riled up.

“Well, I think we can accommodate you,” he said, looking full of himself.

“Really? That’s exactly what I told your mom last night,” Travis shot back.

Deagan turned to the others and briefly curled his lip, before throwing Ryan to the floor. Travis sprang into action but Deagan was too fast. He gripped him around the neck and slammed him up against the lockers. His feet strained for the floor, his toes dangling inches above the ground. Travis tried to knee him in the groin as Deagan raised him, just as a voice bellowed above the crowed.

“Kaine. Marshall.”

Travis’s feet dropped quickly back onto the floor as Deagan released his Vulcan death grip. Mr. Thompson, the physics teacher, marched towards them. Deagan stepped back with a smug look on his face.

“Well, what seems to be the problem here?” Mr. Thompson queried.

“Nothing, sir, just spreading the love.”

“Yes, it looked like that—get to my office.” He motioned to Deagan. Deagan turned, scuffing his feet as he ambled away, glancing over his shoulder only to offer Travis a final cold and menacing stare.

Travis massaged his neck as the color in his face returned to normal. He could still feel the marks of where Deagan’s fingernails had scratched into his skin.

Thompson turned back to Travis. “Marshall, you okay?” he asked, resting one hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said, letting out a cough as he picked his bag up off the floor.

“Okay, nothing to see here, get to classes,” Thompson directed the other kids, who had crowded around to eavesdrop.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one,” Ryan said.

“One? And the rest,” Travis mumbled.

The sound of the bell rang out as they shuffled their way down the corridor.

“Really? His mom?” Ryan snickered.

“Glad you were amused.”

First period of the day was History, a real snooze fest led by Mr. Harper, a guy who obviously had issues. Not only did he have a germ phobia, making every student squirt hand sanitizer on their hands before they entered his room, but he was also in the habit of closing his eyes while he taught, as if he was re-enacting moments in history in his mind. Kids would play pranks on him and switch chairs while his eyes were closed; it confused him every time. You would hear everyone’s snickering wash across the room.

It was always the same; if it wasn’t American history his lecture was filled with endless stories from his youth. Twenty minutes in there was like an eternity of torture. Travis would pluck the hairs from his leg just to keep himself awake. Most days he would glance over at Ryan to find him asleep with his cheek in a puddle of drool or prying open his eyelids with two small paperclips; it was just too funny. The only thing worse than listening to Mr. Harper drone on was being asked a question. Travis would slink down in his seat, bobbing behind the kid in front of him, counting the minutes and hoping the teacher didn’t call upon him.

The class was full except for a few seats that remained empty. Mr. Harper was at the head of the class furiously scribbling on the whiteboard. On one side was the quote, “Now, I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” On the other side he was finishing up writing another note that read, “LANL Field Trip Forms—Get Your Parents To Sign Them!”

It would be the third time a class from their school had gone into the Lab, a rarity for sure in this town.

“Would someone like to share with the class what Robert Oppenheimer was trying to convey when he spoke these words from the Bhagavad Gita?” His eyes surveyed the class looking for a willing participant. Most students blankly stared back, while only a few raised their hands—Travis went one better and avoided all eye contact.

“Travis Marshall?”

He flinched at the sound of his name and then his stomach sank
. Oh c’mon.
Travis shuffled in his seat; he felt a bead of sweat form on his brow. “Well, um …” he stammered. “I kind of think that maybe he realized what he had done—you know after—what he had just created …” He trailed off.

“You say it as if he didn’t fully know the extent of its purpose until it was too late?”

“Well, we know it was built in more than thirty places, so some would never have known what they were developing,” Travis spat out with a sense of certainty. “I mean, it’s possible, right?”

Mr. Harper paced between the desks, appearing lost in thought as though contemplating his answer.

“So you think he regretted his involvement in the Manhattan Project?” he continued.

“I think he had a choice.”

He came to a halt directly in front of his desk, which only made Travis feel even more uncomfortable.

“Did he?”

Chapter Four

Scott stepped off the steel maglev train as the doors slid open. A humid draft of stale air blew in his face, carrying a nauseating smell of stagnated water on corroded metal, making him want to vomit. He was never quite sure what gave off the smell; it could have been the large number of chemical barrels that littered the place or worse—rotten flesh. In all the time he had traveled on the train, he still hadn’t become accustomed to the effects caused by the g-force speed; it made his stomach feel queasy. The journey had always been fast from Los Alamos to Dulce. What would have taken a few hours by car took only minutes beneath the ground, but it was long enough for him. His secondary place of work was hidden away in a base located deep under the Archuleta Mesa, of which he had learned was only one of several underground bases joined together through a network of tunnels—tunnels that to his amazement spread as far as the east coast.

As Scott passed through the usual security check, which involved a retina scan, finger scan and weight check, he remembered the first time he and several others were taken to their assigned areas in the facility. He recalled how he touched the smooth walls thinking they were polished glass only to find out later they had been formed using a tunnel-boring machine that melted rock. It was fast, quiet and could burrow holes through the hardest of rock in seconds. It was discreet and even the best technology in the world wouldn’t be able to detect the bases that existed below the surface. Not even those in the highest level of government knew about their existence and if they did, they were probably one of them. It wasn’t as if Scott hadn’t heard people talk about underground facilities. It was hard not to be drawn into the wild and crazy stories when Ed Logan’s radio show was the only station in town. He’d heard about the worker at the Green Briar Hotel in West Virginia who had leaked to the
Washington Post
the existence of a mini base beneath it in May of 1992 and how they had no choice but to come forward and come up with a cover-up. And they came up with a convincing one, spinning a story that it was developed as a congressional facility for the continuity of government in the event of a nuclear war. But like most in the town Scott had written off anyone who spoke on the show as crazy conspiracy theorists, until he was assigned to this project. They made a mistake once; now they knew how to keep people quiet. The whistleblower was never seen again. The thought of what lay ahead if he failed made his blood run cold.

After being given the all clear, Scott made his way along one of the dimly illuminated subterranean tunnels to a central elevator shaft. Rarely did co-workers speak to each other; there was a feeling that their every word was being monitored. There he would board with other workers and be taken up to level 3, where the labs and main offices were. Over time he had discovered that the base had ten levels, though he hadn’t seen them all; each one was dedicated to different areas of research, experimentation and storage. As they passed by level 2, Scott sealed his eyes shut, a routine he had become accustomed to doing; the sight was too unbearable to witness, no matter what he had been told. As the elevator passed through level 2, as far as the eye could see were men, women and children housed in pod chambers secured by illuminated restraints. Only once in their orientation had they ever been allowed access to level 2, and even then they were escorted by armed personnel. They had been told that they were never to engage with them and that the research that they would be conducting was to cure those with mental illness and incurable diseases. They were the overflow of society’s mental institutions and asylums—or that was what he was led to believe. Scott just couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing. There were thousands upon thousands—most appeared disoriented, asleep or screaming and yet, not a sound could be heard. It would take him almost a year to discover the real truth.

He pushed the uncomfortable thoughts of them from his mind. He had to, there could be no room for error now; there was no turning back and no amount of preparation could ready him for today.

Before entering he could already hear the sound of noisy chatter. As he entered the boardroom full of co-workers in white uniforms and military personnel, there, seated at the head of the table, was Harlan Kaine. His attire was impeccable; he always dressed in the finest suits that were tailored just right. To any businessman, military official or average person, Harlan was the image of success. Though he was never officially mentioned as Los Alamos Laboratories’ director, he was the one behind the curtain, turning the wheels. If he said it, you did it. And those that refused, well, they were never seen again.

Nervously shuffling through papers at the opposite end was Dr. Evans, or as Scott knew him—James. They had both worked on the Genome project together and both had been selected to head up the latest one.

“James?” Scott said inquisitively.

A look of relief spread across James’ face as he looked up.

“What’s going on?” Scott asked.

“They’ve pushed up the date; they want to see the results so far,” James whispered to him.

“Impossible, we need more time,” Scott replied.

“Kaine demands we move ahead.”

“Did you tell him that we haven’t fully tested, that it’s unpredictable what the outcome will be if we continue to test it too early?” Scott pressed his fingers into his forehead, soothing a building headache.