Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 11

Five Days, Twenty Hours, Forty Minutes

Finally, DeMarco heard the elevator doors snap as they closed.

Carefully, he reached up and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead with his free hand, insuring that he would have a clear field of vision unobstructed by salt-stung eyes, and he felt the platform lurch under his feet as the car beside him began to descend. Quickly, it dropped from his sight, and he looked across, saw Matthew's face, and nodded. Simultaneously, they stepped onto the roof of the car as it passed, ever cautious of the electrified cable. One touch, and they could forget about life much less cracking into the stronghold they expected to wait for them at the bottom of the shaft. They crouched on opposite sides, facing one another, and waited. Matthew held a single finger to his lips, signaling for them to remain completely silent. Now wasn't the time for chatter. They couldn't risk being overheard by the camera's repair technician. All they could hope for was total secrecy and total surprise.

Gradually, the car descended through the darkness, and DeMarco smelled the stinking heat as it washed over him. He was surprised that these comfortable Americans didn't air-condition even their elevator shafts, given their collective proclivity for remaining at ease ... but he would do what he could to set the country off on a new course of action ... one that could only produce one possible result ...

... death.

Eventually, they passed the lobby, and the car crawled to a halt. In the stillness, they heard the elevator doors open, and they listened as the clip-clip-clipping of the technician's light footsteps faded into the distance. The doors closed, and they both released a heavy breath.

Pointing toward the metal column that stretched downward on his side of the car, DeMarco reached across the distance with his leg. He found solid footing on a cross beam, and, squinting in the pale light, he hoisted himself over the gap and onto the maintenance girder. Feeling around the massive steel beam, he found a security ladder that he suspected would be in the subterranean levels – he knew it reasonable to suspect that the crew that built the place undoubtedly prepared for any and all eventualities. Gripping the closest rung, he swung himself out into open space – the hot air tugging at his swinging body – and he pulled himself onto the ladder.

Climbing downward, he glanced into the darkness below. He couldn't make out anything substantial, but, as he continued into the depths of the shaft, he grew aware that the steel plating between the underground levels of the Heston grew thicker and thicker. The hotel's director of security – Fred Gallick – was correct: this type of construction definitely was intended to withstand any major catastrophe. Principally, the steel would protect those people evacuated into the lower levels from being crushed in the event that the building was to collapse from earthquake or explosion. Nothing would penetrate this surface, he realized, and he reached out and touched the immoveable plating with his knuckles. Hearing Matthew descending above him forced DeMarco to tighten his pace down the ladder, and, shortly, lights appeared.

"There is something down here," he whispered up.

The small floodlights stretched across the surface of massive aluminum plating. As far as the eye could see, DeMarco saw nothing but immense reflective steel, and he suspected not even a nuclear blast could tear into or scratch the surface. Two slabs of metal – easily twenty inches thick – were locked in place, guarding against any unauthorized entrance through the elevator shaft.

Level Seven.

This was as low as they would go. Gallick had told DeMarco that the floor was leased to Darlington Industries, but, despite his best efforts, he found not a single shred on the company wherever he looked. So far as he could tell, it was fictitious, a ruse to throw suspicion in another direction, but the terrorist knew better.

This was where Senator Arthur Pendley was holed up. Darlington – whatever it was – was his dream child, and here it was, with Pendley locked inside the bunker doors doing whatever it was he was doing.

DeMarco had found his Holy Grail.

Now all that mattered was finding a way inside.

[At the same time]

Maintaining her confident poise, Belinda waltzed into Pendley's office carrying the fax she had just taken off the machine beside her desk. The man didn't look up from his papers – he never did – and she wondered if he realized that she was even here. She had hoped he did. She'd always found herself attracted to older men – men in positions of unique authority – and she knew very well her boss's credentials. As a matter of fact, she almost didn't accept his offer for this post when it came in because she was so concerned that she'd fail ... and failure was something that Belinda Fleming didn't tolerate. She had pushed herself to her limits in the political community, ignoring the fact that her gender was typically ignored, in order to gain the respect she had. Such persistence caught the eye of not only gentlemen suitors but also future employers, and Pendley remembered his conversation with her – when they first met – at a State Department dinner held in honor of some visiting South African dignitary. At the time, she was serving in the White House Press Office – a junior post if there ever was one – but she quickly became known around the 'Yard,' as they called the White House, as a real go-getter. She appreciated the reputation, and she used it to maximum advantage. At the dinner, she walked up to Senator Pendley, asked him for a dance, and, while they were traipsing across the exquisitely crafted marble floor, she told him everything she thought of his work for the Senate. While she had intended for it to be little more than casually flirting with a man twice her age, she couldn't help but realize that it could lead to so much more. It did, eventually ... but now she had spent far too long locked away in this basement, tending to Pendley's every clerical need ... and she so desperately missed the sunlight. When he offered her the position, he told her that Project Kupher was a secret military project – he assured her it had the highest 'top secret' classification possible – and that serving Kupher would require relocation to the military base. Her shock and surprise at discovering she would be working on the lowest floor of one of Washington's premiere hotels still hadn't waned, all those months ago. Now, she wanted to leave, to go outside and sit on the grass, kick off her shoes, and rub her feet in the dirt ... but it wouldn't happen ... not until Pendley had secured her replacement.

"Sir?" she began, holding out the fax. "Your communiqué from Vulture."

'Vulture,' she thought. 'God, I hate these codenames.'

"Thank you," he replied pleasantly, placing the folder he was perusing on his desk and taking the page from her.

"Not a problem, sir."

Waiting, she studied his expression as he read. He didn't show any emotion.

"Sir?"

"What is it today, Belinda?"

"I'm bored."

"Aren't we all?"

"I was hoping ... well ... I know I've asked this before. I haven't forgotten the requirements that national security places on all of us down here ... but I was wondering how much longer I'd be assigned to this post."

He glanced up at her. "Why, Belinda, I think I've been clear on that topic. I don't have any specifics on how long the military will be keeping you down here in the bowels of the Earth, but I do believe – actually, I have it on good authority – that they're considering a rotation to personnel very soon."

She swallowed nervously. "I was really hoping that I could get a day topside ... if that isn't too much to ask." She held up her hands. "I know that I've asked before, but I've stayed at my post for a very long time, and it isn't as if I'm asking for re-assignment because I would never do that to you, sir. It's only ... I wouldn't mind one day ... one hour ... to stretch my legs up there."

He sighed. "I'll make the request again."

She smiled. "Thank you, sir. I really appreciate your understanding."

"You're very welcome, Belinda."

Changing the topic, hoping to sound less formal, she tried, "Any important news from Vulture?"

"I'm afraid so," he answered. Rising, he crumpled the page of paper into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket beside his fine desk. "Apparently, there is a new strategy to the War on Terror. Please keep this hush-hush, as I'm quite certain it's all classified, but it looks like the United States has a new weapons program ready for deployment that will change the battle plan dramatically." He straightened his suit coat, and then he reached up and tightened the tie around his neck. "I'm needed in my Senate chambers for a brief meeting on the move of Project Kupher from this 'hole' to somewhere far more hospitable to a woman of your charms." He grinned at her. "See? It's as I've told you all along. The President hasn't forgotten any of us. Much to the contrary, I would imagine we've been foremost on his mind as of late. At his behest, I would imagine that we'll be moving to our operational headquarters very soon. We're simply waiting for the current contractors to ... vacate the premises."

"That's good news," she beamed.

"It certainly is," he agreed, reaching for his briefcase and taking it in tow.

"I know how much this project has meant to your career."

"And to yours, my dear."

'Damn,' she thought. 'Why won't he notice me?'

"We'll all be moving up in the world," he explained, "and I don't mean just the elevator, Belinda."

She laughed, trying hard to sound interested – is that possible with a laugh? She followed him into the hallway toward the waiting elevator doors.

"Belinda," he tried, "I know this assignment hasn't been easy for you."

Shrugging, she made light of the work. "It's nothing, sir."

"No, no," he insisted as they moved together down the hall. "You're a young woman – a very beautiful young woman – and I can only imagine what sacrifices you've made to serve me ... to serve the project ... here in this metal fortress, of all places."

"Really, sir. It's been a pleasure to be involved in something with the prospect of so much reward."

"Yes," he agreed. "It is." With a hint of excitement in his voice, he said, "I would suspect that we're all due for some reward very soon."

From his breast pocket, he pulled a swipecard, and he ran it across the jeweled sensor. With a ping, the doors parted, and he stepped onboard.

"As I've told you all along, my dear," he offered as the panels started to close, "it's only a matter of time."

[At the same time]

DeMarco heard the hissing of hydraulics coming to life, and he said, "Get clear, get clear!"

Together, the two men jogged several steps away from the massive plate doors, which moved. Ever so slowly, they whined in protest as they crawled in separate directions – parting like Moses did the Red Sea – clearing the opening they once protected. The screech echoed throughout the shaft, the noise bouncing back at them from hundreds of directions. DeMarco listened to the automated clicking of unlocking pressure seals, and, before their eyes, a private elevator car rose from the hole. Mechanically, the box rose up and up and up, riding on its sliver of cable, disappearing into the blackness over their heads, and the doors left far below locked into place – open.

"Well, my friend," Matthew whispered, "it looks like we're in business."

END of Chapter 11