Returning from his truck with a flashlight, Miguel descended cautiously into the shallow depths of the hole which the diggers had successfully exposed. It was definitely the entrance to the cavern, although it looked somewhat different in the harsh brightness of the day. Closer inspection of the short tunnel revealed that this was surely an old mine, although how old it was and what was once mined here, he had no way of knowing.
Whispering among themselves, diggers and sweepers alike watched Miguel with curious interest as he descended into the ill-omened blackness.
Miguel’s eyes didn’t need time to adjust, nor did he need the flashlight. Less than twenty paces along, the cavern was as bright as daylight, but compared to the stifling afternoon heat outside, unusually cool.
Scattered all around, were bright fluorescent strip lights mounted on high tripods. He wondered where the electric power came from. Looking up, he noticed a small hole in the domed ceiling. That must be from where he saw the light radiating when he first discovered this place a few weeks ago, crossing the Mojave with a truckload of illegal migrants.
His crew, deciding that it was safe, slowly tailed in from behind, the least suspicious gingerly leading the way.
Miguel would find it difficult to describe what he was looking at. If he’d been versed in gothic literature and the early nineteenth-century works of Mary Shelley, he would have likened it with Frankenstein’s lab, but he was illiterate, and his descriptive talents were far from adequate.
The cavern itself wasn’t particularly large; thirty feet across and roughly circular. The ceiling at its apex reached a height of no more that fifteen feet. On the left, a large, steel workbench with vice, a welding machine and most of the tools typically found in an auto-workshop. Picks and shovels were leaning against the workbench.
On the opposite end, stood a large rickety shelving unit holding what appeared to be hundreds of small black rocks. A closed steel door was accessible from behind the shelves. Against the rock wall to the right of the door, motors, transformers and large circuit-breakers were piled on top of each other in a haphazard manner. Flanking the electrical contrivances, two massive coiled cylinders spaced about two feet apart and at least six feet tall resonated with a menacing hum. An occasional spark discharged from one to the other.
The most prominent feature of the cavern was a pit, the opening of which flared out like a huge funnel over ten feet across. Miguel couldn’t determine its depth from where he was standing, and he had no intention of moving any closer. There was no protective barrier.
The strangest object, however, was something Miguel’s mind couldn’t grasp. He remembered it vividly from when he’d first discovered this strange place. Hovering mysteriously on the far right of the cavern’s entrance, it looked like a small oval shaped car, but without engine or luggage compartments. Its lower section was fashioned into a rough-textured black shell, and its top half, a transparent Plexiglas hood. About a foot or so off the ground, with no apparent underside support, it appeared to be poised in mid-air without any source of energy. Cautiously, Miguel moved closer and prodded it gently with his hand. It bobbed down and up again very slightly, like it was held up on very soft springs. He prodded a bit harder, with the same result, but this time it floated a few inches away from him before coming to rest. Miguel crouched down to have a look underneath and assure himself that there really was nothing keeping it off the ground. Angelo would probably be able to explain it.
Back on his feet, Miguel told his crew to be careful what they touched; he would be right back with his old but reliable 35mm Pentax which he’d left in the truck. He avoided modern cameras and had no smartphone, being highly sceptical of electronic devices that could think for themselves.
Miguel took photos of everything, including the strange vehicle. With very little effort, he pulled it further from the wall so that he could get pictures from all sides. He photographed the inside and underneath from various angles. This, he believed, would be of the most interest to Angelo.
His work here was done.
Unwilling to remain in this unsettling site with its floating car and humming coils, the crew followed him back through the tunnel to more recognisable surroundings outside. One of the sweepers, however, remained behind, curious to see what was behind the doorway at the far end of the cavern. He walked carefully around the pit, squeezed behind the shelving unit and pushed against the door’s flat surface. It didn’t budge, so he pushed again with more force; still without success. For extra support, he placed his right foot against the shelving for one more attempt, and in the process, the entire unit collapsed.
With a loud clatter, all the rocks hit the ground and were inexorably drawn towards the steep conical opening of the pit.
In Level-2, eyes stared in astonishment at the large TV screen. Without warning, hundreds of small black rocks exploded out the top of a hillock near the entrance of the mine. Faster than the eye could see, they mushroomed in every direction possible, many reaching as high as the upper atmosphere in seconds. On their way passed, a small cluster of the rocks wiped out the unmanned aerial vehicle.
“We’ve just lost our drone,” Uri said. “Gene, play back the last few seconds of the recording in slow motion.”
They watched the scene unfold frame by frame. The time display at the top right of the screen indicated two forty-five p.m.
Chapter Forty-Nine
With the port engine blazing uncontrollably, and most of the left wing shredded, Trans-Commercial flight 761’s Boeing 737-700 tilted violently. Terrified passengers on the left of the aisle watched the approaching runway racing past in horror; those on the right, saw nothing but sky. Everything in the right overhead luggage compartment tumbled out. Far less injury would have resulted if some of the self-regarding passengers hadn’t tried to pass off their heavy suitcases as hand luggage.
Captain Angela Rothman raised the right aileron in a desperate effort to level the aircraft. They were less than thirty feet above the runway. First Officer Mateo Rodriguez killed all power to the right engine. Capability for reverse braking thrust would make no difference now. Rothman applied full right-rudder and raised the elevators to their maximum.
Through the flight deck’s closed security door, Rothman and Rodriguez paid little attention to the alarming screams coming from the terrified passengers.
Through sheer force of will by the pilots, their skill, the design of the aircraft or intervention from a benevolent deity, the Boeing 737 started righting itself, but in the process, veered sharply toward the left edge of the runway. Nose in the air, its tail hit the grassy verge first. The rest of the aircraft followed with such force, the undercarriage sheared off; first the left side, then the right, and lastly, the nose assembly. For over half a mile, the 737 skidded sideways along the grass before coming to a resounding standstill. Fifteen seconds later, front and rear passenger doors blew open and the emergency evacuation slides deployed. Fire engines, ambulances and airport support vehicles arrived from every direction.
Flames from the demolished engine were fed by the remaining aviation fuel seeping from the remnants of the left wing. Dry grass instantly ignited and edged towards the underside of the Boeing.
In the communications centre, Uri let LaForgue know what had transpired in the last few hours. He left out everything to do with Yvonne Baird and her association with Angelo Cevallos. He reported the explosion from the transmission site and informed her of the loss of their drone. He described, as best as possible, the last few frames of what they’d observed from the video surveillance.