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  Several hundred feet beyond the power plant were three rectangular cement-block buildings with floodlights mounted on the corners of their roofs. Judging from the military vehicles parked in front of them, Leahy guessed they were barracks. Taking into consideration that some of the space would be used for administrative purposes and a mess hall, there was still enough room to accommodate at least two hundred men; a sizeable force for a research facility.

  As the helicopter slowly circumnavigated the complex, another group of eight buildings almost identical to the barracks came into view. These formed a rough square, two buildings to each side. In their dimly lit atrium he could see various types of shrubs and trees planted along the perimeter. Directly in the middle of the atrium was a large kidney-shaped swimming pool. Underwater lights illuminated its green bottom, giving the complex a familiar motel-like appearance. He asked Taylor for an explanation.

  “That’s the civilian living quarters,” she said. “There are over five hundred scientists, technicians, and support personnel working here at any given time, not including transient personnel. Since there are no roads into the main plant, commuting between home and work isn’t feasible. The government tries to make everyone as comfortable as possible during their tour of duty, so we have almost everything anyone might need. That’s our commissary over there,” she pointed to a large square structure with many windows about a hundred feet from the other buildings.

  “How long is a tour of duty?” he inquired.

  “It depends on the job classification. Most are for a minimum of six months, but some last several years.”

  “What’s my job classification?”

  She ignored the question and said, “That’s my apartment over there on the corner. The one with the yellow curtains.”

  He barely got a look at the place before they passed beyond the buildings. The pilot rotated the ship counterclockwise and dropped the nose a few degrees. The blackness of the desert appeared in the doorway, faintly lit by the glow of the fence lights. As the aircraft straightened again, a large two-story structure resembling an office building came into view. Two smaller buildings, one on each side, were connected to the main structure by lighted walkways. A dozen communications antennas topped with blinking red signals sprouted from the roof of the larger building. Light spilled from many of the windows, indicating the presence of night workers. A one-story structure about twenty feet square surrounded by additional antennas was located directly behind the office building. A tall shaft resembling a metal telephone pole stood a few yards away. From its top, a bright green light emitted a pulsing glow. A mass of thick cables ran from the pole to a huge satellite dish at its base. As they descended toward the front of the building Leahy observed several helicopters tied down on a tarmac near the entrance. As soon as they settled to the ground the Marine came back and stood by the door.

  “Welcome to Apache Point, sir,” he said as he stepped out onto the concrete.

  Leahy ducked under the rotor blades as he exited, then helped Taylor out. When she was safely on the ground she took his hand and they entered the building. Inside was an expansive lobby with expensive-looking furniture. A profusion of greenery in decorative pots sat at intervals along the walls. To the left of the entrance was a closed door marked SECURITY OFFICER. The wall directly ahead was made of marble, and had a glass cubicle about five feet square in its center. The cubicle was equipped with front and rear doors, with an empty hallway stretching off into the distance behind it. Two stony-faced Marines with automatic weapons stood on each side of the cubicle. Anyone wishing to gain entry to the hallway would have to pass by the guards, then through the cubicle. Leahy saw their eyes examining every square inch of his body. To their right, another Marine sat behind a security desk equipped with an array of video monitors.

  Taylor ushered Leahy over to the desk and spoke to the guard. “Good evening, Sergeant.” She fished a small plastic card with an alligator clip on the back out of her purse and handed it to him. It looked like a driver’s license, complete with photograph.

  “Good evening, Miss Griffin,” the guard replied in a cheerful tone. He inserted the card into a slot in the top of the desk. Something inside made a clicking noise. A color picture of Taylor appeared on one of the monitors. Beneath her image appeared the words GRIFFIN, TAYLOR L. 032217-A. The sergeant removed the card and handed it back to her.

  “This is Mr. Matthew Leahy,” she introduced Matt. “His identification should have been forwarded to you earlier today.”

  He glanced at Leahy and nodded. “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  Leahy acknowledged the greeting as the sergeant unlocked a drawer and removed a brown envelope with an embossed seal on the flap. He tore it open and took out what appeared to be a duplicate of Taylor’s card. Leahy watched as he put it into the slot. He was amazed to see his photo appear on the monitor with LEAHY, MATTHEW D. 287114-A printed underneath. He recognized the image as a copy of the picture taken for renewal of his police ID a year ago.

  The sergeant looked up at Leahy. “This is your computer recognition card, sir. Please keep it with you at all times.”

  Leahy took the card and examined it. ChronSecCom was printed in bold black letters along the top just above his photo. On the back, near one corner, was a small black square containing encrypted data. When clipped to a coat pocket or lapel, the card served as an ID badge; however, authorization for entry into restricted areas required computer recognition of the data inside the square.

  “The badge is worn on the left side of the outer clothing, sir,” the guard continued. “It must always be in plain view.” Leahy clipped it to the pocket of his suit coat and looked at Taylor. She had already fastened her card to her jacket.

  "Would you notify Dr. Durant that we're here, please?" she asked the sergeant.

  "He was notified immediately as you landed, Miss Griffin. He requested that you and Mr. Leahy meet him in the lower cafeteria."

  "Thank you, Sergeant." She guided Leahy over to the glass cubicle and stopped at a monitor built into the wall. It came to life at their approach, apparently activated by their presence. The screen glowed blue, with pulsing amber letters across the bottom that read PRESS PALM AND FINGERS OF LEFT HAND IN CENTER OF SCREEN. Taylor placed her hand on the screen as directed. The blue color changed to white and she took her hand away. VERIFICATION CONFIRMED: GRIFFIN, TAYLOR L. - CLEARANCE TYPE 100.1 appeared on the screen. Within a few seconds it changed back to blue and the cubicle door slid open.

  "After I go into the hallway, press your palm against the screen," she said to Leahy.

  She passed through into the glass cubicle and waited. After a few seconds the door closed and she was bathed in violet light emanating from apertures in the walls and floor. After a few seconds the lights went out, the rear door opened, and she stepped into the hallway.

  Leahy turned to the monitor and followed her instructions. When the panel changed to white he removed his hand. The same words appeared, except the clearance type had changed to 100.R04. When the cubicle door opened he stepped into the foyer. When the violet lights came on he examined their source with a practiced eye. There were at least a dozen of them situated at various places inside the cubicle. They were about two inches in diameter and resembled camera lenses. He suspected that they were some type of sophisticated search equipment. When the procedure concluded he joined Taylor in the hallway. The Marines remained stationary, eyes straight ahead. Leahy wondered what they would have done if he and Taylor had tried to pass through the cubicle at the same time. However, from what he had witnessed aboard the helicopter, he was not anxious to learn.

  The hallway floor, made of black ceramic tile, was about thirty yards long. It was deserted, and as they walked Taylor's high heel shoes made little clicking echoes. All the doors they passed were unmarked and closed. When they reached the end of the corridor they turned left into a short hallway ending in a bank of elevator doors. Taylor pressed the call button.

 
"Are you hungry?" she asked.

  "Are you kidding?” He made a painful face and put his hand over his stomach. “I could eat the haunch off an elephant."

  She grinned. "So could I. Maybe it will be on tonight's menu."

  Leahy glanced around the hallway. "There doesn't seem to be anyone working. Is it always this deserted?"

  “No, most of the rooms on this level are administrative offices. The pencil pushers have all gone home for the day. Most of the complex is below ground. That’s where the labs are. I think you’ll find it quite interesting."

  They gazed at each other in silent communication for a few seconds.

  "So far, everything I've seen has been quite interesting," he said. The innuendo was not lost on her, and she smiled.

  As they waited she saw him glance at his watch. The simple action brought an amused expression to her face. Consulting a watch was something people did dozens of times a day in their busy world, but she had not worn one for over four years. In her world a timepiece was of little importance, and she knew that before long Matt Leahy would feel the same way. He just did not know it yet.

  The elevator doors opened with a musical tone and they stepped inside. Taylor inserted her ID card into a slot above the selection panel then removed it. When the doors closed, she pressed number eight. Leahy felt the floor fall from beneath him as the elevator shot downward at twice-normal speed. He grabbed the handrail and caught his breath.

  Taylor placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you. The elevators in this building descend as though someone cut the cable. I almost threw up the first time I used one of them."

  He felt his weight compressing as they slowed to a stop. "No problem. I'm used to falling off eight-story buildings," he said with a sour look.

  The doors opened into a wide tunnel lit by overhead fluorescent tubes. As in the hallway, the floor was paved with ceramic tile. However, unlike the entrance level of the complex, this area was alive with people. Technicians in lab coats conversed as they carried various pieces of equipment and stacks of paperwork up and down the tunnel. Some of them spoke to Taylor as they passed, and she responded politely. Leahy was not surprised to see armed Marines stationed at intervals along the tunnel.

  Three stripes of different colors ran in both directions along the tunnel’s floor. He had seen this same type of color-coding in the gigantic Lockheed-Martin aircraft plant near Atlanta, and knew its purpose was to keep people from becoming lost while traversing the network of tunnels and hallways below the main floors. You just followed the appropriate color stripe and it led you to your destination. The tunnel was about twelve feet high and thirty feet wide, with a maze of pipes and conduits along the walls and ceiling. It stretched away for about a hundred yards in both directions before curving out of sight. A dozen or so smaller corridors branched off at various intervals along its length. Directly across from the elevator was an alcove where several golf carts were parked. They walked over and climbed into one of them. Leahy took the passenger seat and they started off with a jolt. Taylor steered the cart out into the tunnel and took off at full speed. People ahead began scattering toward the walls.

  Leahy gripped the metal bar running along the back of the seat and held on. "I see these people know your driving habits.”

  She glanced at him and grinned. “I love driving these things. I’m just not good at takeoffs. Anyway, we want to get to the cafeteria before the elephant's gone don't we?"

  "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" he shouted, and they both laughed. He was pleased to see that she had a good sense of humor.

  The wind from their passage caused her scarf to flutter back over her shoulder and stood the hair up along her forehead. The grin on her face made her look like an excited child at an amusement park rather than the scientist she really was. The golden brooch gleamed as they passed beneath the overhead lights. She steered the cart out of the main tunnel, made several turns, and finally stopped at a large parking lot occupied by numerous other vehicles.

  They disembarked and went through a set of double doors into a dining room. It was no different from any other cafeteria Leahy had seen. There was the standard serving line with food displayed in steam pans behind a glass shield. Several men in white T-shirts and hats were on duty behind the counter serving food to those in line. The room had about fifty tables and was half-full of people eating and talking. Music came over speakers in the ceiling, and the buzz of conversation gave the place a friendly atmosphere.

  He followed Taylor to a turnstile at the serving line entrance and watched her insert her ID card into a slot on top of a pedestal. Something inside clicked a few times and she removed the card. He unclipped his card from his jacket and followed suit. After they had gotten their food, they sat down at a table in one corner of the room. With a police officer’s caution he positioned himself so he could see the entire area; especially the doors. He gazed around at the people for a few seconds then turned to his food. He had not realized how hungry he was until he started eating.

  "Not bad elephant," he said over a mouthful of roast beef.

  "Just goes to show that all those jokes about military cooks don't mean a thing," Taylor replied, taking a sip from a cup of black coffee.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. During the lull in their conversation, Leahy studied the other diners. There was about an equal number of men and women seated at the tables. Most of them wore lab coats, but a few were dressed in green pants and shirts similar to the type doctors and nurses wear in operating rooms. Some of them had surgical caps with masks hanging loose around their necks. He and Taylor were the only ones in the room wearing suits, and it made him feel a little conspicuous.

  "Do you have a hospital here?" he asked her.

  She gave him a quizzical look, a forkful of food suspended halfway between her plate and mouth. “A hospital? No, just a small infirmary. Why do you ask?"

  He glanced around the room. "The surgical clothes."

  “Oh, that. I’m so used to all the uniforms and different rigs around here I hardly notice anymore. But to answer your question, some of the labs contain sensitive equipment. The temperature is maintained at an exact setting in a dust free environment. The surgical clothes are to prevent contamination by human breath and skin. The clothes they’re currently wearing will have to be changed before they go back to work." She put the food into her mouth and continued eating.

  The answer was so obvious that it made him feel foolish for having asked it, but his ignorance had been perpetuated by Taylor and other people; therefore, he could not be criticized for making inquiries. He checked his watch again. As of now he had been kept in the dark for over twelve hours, accepting everything on faith, and he was growing tired of it. He was about to say so when two women sitting at a table near them caught his eye. One of them, an attractive blonde, nodded and smiled. Taylor looked up just as he returned the smile. She glanced at the other table, let out a small breath, then resumed her dinner. The blonde spoke briefly to her companion, picked up her tray, and walked over to Leahy’s table.

  "Hi, Taylor," she said cheerfully. "Haven't seen you in a while. You must be staying busy."

  "Hello, Gail." Taylor’s tone was stiffly polite, almost snippy.

  The woman blessed Leahy with a dazzling smile. "I don't believe I've met your friend."

  Taylor put her fork down and bit her lower lip. She looked the other woman straight in the eye. “Matt Leahy, Gail Wilson. Gail is one of our systems analysts."

  Gail balanced one edge of the food tray on her hip and stuck out her hand. "Glad to meet you, Matt. Are you new here or have they just been hiding you out?"

  He rose halfway from the table and started to answer, but Taylor cut him off. "Matt's not directly connected with the facility, Gail," she said in a peevish voice. "He's a VIP on temporary assignment from the NSA."

  "The NSA?" She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as though impressed.

  "Only
temporarily," Leahy answered, resuming his seat. "Actually, I'm......"

  "Here's Dr. Durant," Taylor interrupted him again.

  All three of them looked toward the entrance. A tall, thin man with white hair had entered the room and was speaking to two technicians who were just leaving. After they departed he scanned the room, finally spotting Taylor. He waved and entered the serving line.

  "Well, I have to run," Gail said. "See you later, Matt." Her smile could have been used in a toothpaste commercial. She raised her chin slightly and said, "Bye-bye, Taylor."

  "Goodbye, Gail," Taylor replied in a slightly sarcastic tone.

  Gail's chin went up a little higher as she turned away. Leahy watched her weave through the maze of tables and slip the tray into a service window near the exit. She glanced back at them and gave a little wave before going out. Taylor mumbled something unintelligible under her breath and tossed her napkin onto the table.

  "Did you say something?" Leahy inquired, turning back to Taylor.

  "No...well, yes. I'm sorry, Matt. I didn't mean to cut you short with Gail, but there are some things you need to know before...well, before you get too acquainted with any of the people around here. Gail doesn't have the proper security clearance to be privy to any information about you. And she talks too much."

  "At this point she probably knows as much about why I'm here as I do. From the conversation I take it you two aren't the best of friends."

  "I wouldn't choose her as my personal confessor, if that's what you mean. Besides, until I'm told differently, you're my responsibility."

  “Responsibility, huh?” He used a hurt tone. “Now I’m disappointed. I thought you were jealous."