Inside the file she found an inventory of the team's items. It seemed Borman had treated this mission like a NASA moon shot; noting — ad nauseam — every item, including the clothes on the back of each man. She even saw a listing for the Twinkies Sal Galati had stuffed in his kit. Borman must have had base security interview each man, perhaps even search them, prior to their load-out session before entering the vault.
She scanned the columns and sentences and numbers page by page. The weapons list included the standard stuff: rifles, pistols, knives, plenty of ammunition, ballistic armor, fragmentation grenades, one old-style flamethrower, and more.
An idea came to mind. She paged past the information on rations and first aid equipment and personal effects to Captain Twiste’s gear. She found the listing for the variable accelerator antimatter delivery device, or V.A.A.D. for short. There was only a brief description of the thing's size and shape, noting the separate battery packs needed for operation. Under the general column requiring an item's particular function were the words "bombard target area with antiparticles."
That was it. The most important piece of equipment on the mission received no more description or account than Sergeant Franco's boots or Specialist Pearson's gold chain.
Frustrated, she slapped the folder on her desktop and huffed. She knew the Tall Company's representative on-site — that Vsalov guy — probably knew everything about the V.A.A.D., but she also knew he would tell her nothing. That was par for the course; no one at The Tall Company ever provided much help.
Now that's not exactly true, is it?
She did know one person over there who might be willing to talk.
17
Sergeant Franco navigated down the stairs by the tactical light attached to his USAS-12. Scattered emergency lights — a few dim red ones marking exits and even fewer bright spotlights mounted in corners — also helped provide just enough illumination that he and the others could put aside their night vision equipment.
As much as he appreciated them, Franco understood that working lights deep inside an underground bunker that had been quarantined for twenty years suggested more bad news than good.
Of course I'm the guy out in front, that angry part of his mind pointed out. I don't see the major's pet sticking his neck out or any of the “brothers” from the team. No, leave the crap stuff for Franco. Think they'll have my back when the shit hits the fan? Yeah, right.
Regardless of how he perceived things, the sergeant was accompanied by Wells, Galati, and Moss as part of the lead element. The others — Campion, Twiste, Gant, as well as Pearson with his flame unit — waited behind at the top of the stairs on sublevel 5.
Franco brushed aside his thoughts and raised a fist in the air. The scout team crouched in the stairwell. They had arrived at the next sublevel. Another hallway loomed. A variety of light sources — spotlights and emergency lights — created a confusing pattern of dark and bright ahead. Franco waited for his eyes to adjust.
He pressed against one wall and descended the last two steps, then quickly peeked around the corner, darting his head out and then back. In that short glimpse he captured a snapshot of the hall to the right: doors along the corridor, debris here and there, and a smashed light panel hanging from the ceiling by its electrical cords.
He darted his head out again, this time in the other direction, seeing a set of closed double doors and an elbow in the hall that most certainly led to another passageway.
Franco ran a hand over his face and wiped free a lot more sweat than expected. The lower halls were not as cold as the ones above, for some reason, but still chilled enough that he had not expected to find so much perspiration on his face.
After a moment of consideration, the sergeant flipped open his wrist computer. While the glow for the display was actually rather dim, it felt like a giant beacon giving away his hiding spot.
He used the contraption to double-check their position. If the map was accurate — and he had been on enough missions to know that maps were not always accurate — then the stairway leading down to the next level was constructed into a corner on the far side of this floor, meaning quite a long walk. Not an efficient layout should the complex need to be evacuated, but isolating the stairs on different ends of each floor helped with security and containment, concerns far more important to places like Red Rock than employee safety.
What a second … what's this?
Franco closed the computer and unslung the Searchcam strapped across his back. He clicked a button and extended the pole beyond the rim of the wall. What he saw on the small monitor confirmed what he had seen during his quick glimpses and confirmed that no danger appeared present; the corridor was empty in either direction except for pieces of overturned office furniture, what appeared to be a jug from a water cooler, and a broken fire axe imbedded in a wall.
More important, his computer map indicated a — yes, there it was. Elevator doors set in the wall a dozen steps down the vacant hall to the right.
Franco reholstered the Searchcam.
Major Gant's voice crackled over Franco's headset: "Biggy, what's your status?"
Up until that moment, Ben Franco had not realized how much he despised that nickname. He was not fat, so they must call him that because they were jealous of his strength. Still…
How about I call you “Blacky,” huh, Major?
Of course, he said no such thing. Instead, he radioed, "We've reached the next sublevel. The stairs end here and a doorway opens to a hall."
Even before he finished his report Franco knew Gant had not heard clearly. There was too much static, even though the major waited only twenty paces behind at the top of the stairs.
"Repeat that, Sergeant."
"I said," Franco started, but he spoke too loudly. He placed a hand over his headset microphone and tried again. "At sublevel 6. Hallway."
Gant may have said something more but Franco did not wait to listen. The last thing he wanted to do was start shouting into his transmitter. The empty halls conducted sound like water conducting electricity. Hell, if it were not for the need for secrecy they could yell to one another far more effectively than using radios. Besides, if the major wanted to know what was up ahead, he could come down and see for himself.
Sergeant Franco proceeded with the next step. Although the contrasting bands of light and dark made hand signals difficult, Wells and Moss were close enough to understand. He used his hands and fingers to dispatch Wells to the far side of the hall then Moss around the corner toward the double doors. Galati, meanwhile, was instructed to hold his position.
As for Franco, he left the confines of the stairwell and crept quickly toward the elevator doors built into the side of the corridor. His boots made a soft scraping sound until he kicked something — maybe a pencil — and it rolled across the floor with a sound that seemed as loud as a jackknifing 18-wheeler.
Franco stopped at the shut elevator and glanced around at his team. Thanks to the glow of an emergency spotlight, Franco clearly saw Moss who had sprinted left when coming out of the stairs and now stood at the corner where a perpendicular corridor led off like a bent elbow. Franco watched as Moss glanced around that corner. After a moment, he turned toward the sergeant and flashed the palm of an open hand over his eyes, signaling that something obstructed his view.