He knew he was taking a risk, but he continued to follow the tunnel.
The AMP-100 pinged, noting that the Rads were rising.
Tom glanced at the reading — 300.
It would have been considered quite high if they were outside of their nuclear dive suits, but still low enough not to kill a person on exposure.
Still, he was glad he was inside a dive suit and breathing self-contained air.
The river system continued in an unnaturally straight line for nearly a mile.
Tom said, “Something’s not right here.”
“What do you mean?” Genevieve replied. “We’re diving through an underground river, filled with nuclear waste, what could be wrong?”
Tom said, “Subterranean rivers, like their sisters above ground, tend to snake and meander, as the flowing water tries to find a path of least resistance…”
Genevieve shined her headlamp along the walls of the tunnel. “This one’s perfectly straight.”
“Yep.”
“Which means?”
Tom said, “It didn’t develop naturally. Someone built it.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. If I had to guess, I’d say someone was using it to bring water into something. Or illegally drain water into the river.”
Genevieve shook her head. “It seems like a lot of work to achieve that.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why.”
At around the mile mark the tunnel came to an abrupt end.
Tom looked around. “Where the hell is the water flowing from?”
Genevieve said, “Look up!”
Tom turned his headlamp upward. The tunnel suddenly widened into a large opening, like looking up from the bottom of a bath plug.
The AMP-100 went berserk. Rad levels skyrocketed well into the thousands.
It was safe to say they had found the source of the nuclear radiation.
Tom slowly maneuvered his way through to the opening.
As soon as he was in the new cavern, he realized they had entered a large subterranean lake. The bathymetric readings, displayed at the front of the sea scooter’s monitor, showed them to be in what appeared to be nothing less than an underground sea.
“Where are we?” Genevieve asked.
Tom shined his flashlight across the bottom of the lake. Large cylindrical nuclear fuel rods littered the floor, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of 144-gallon drums, marked with the black and yellow trefoil — the international symbol for nuclear radiation.
Tom angled the sea scooter upward and gave its throttle a short burst. It was enough to set him in ascending motion.
And after a few seconds, the sea scooter broke the surface of a subterranean lake.
Chapter Forty-Five
Tom used his hand-held flashlight to search the grotto, its beam running along the ceiling and distant horizon in giant swathes.
Genevieve said, “This is clearly a nuclear waste holding site.”
“Agreed. Judging by its size, I’d say it’s the largest one to serve the Hanford Nuclear Site. It’s also undisclosed, which means the politicians and the military have been lying to the American people for many years.”
Genevieve shrugged. Growing up in Russia as the daughter of a leading mafia boss, she often saw things in simple, clear cut ways. “It was supposed to be a secret nuclear development site. It wouldn’t have been very secret if they notified the people of the purpose of the Manhattan Project.”
Tom sighed. “You’re right. This might have been the original disposal site during the initial testing and development phase of the Manhattan Project. Those records would have been kept secret until the nineties, after the Cold War had ended. If so, there’s a good chance that everyone and anyone who knew about it is now dead.”
“You think it’s all a case of forgotten locations?” Genevieve didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. “No, I bet you any amount of money, someone still knows about this location, and they’d go to extreme lengths to keep the secret buried.”
“I hope you’re wrong. But you’re probably right.” Tom fixed his flashlight on an iron platform built on the side of the subterranean lake. There was a sign over a doorway cut into the rockface. “Let’s see what that is.”
He opened the throttle and the sea scooter whirred as it raced through the water. Tom climbed a set of stairs built into the iron platform, careful not to let any sharp edges cut through his dive suit.
Genevieve climbed up after him.
Tom shined his flashlight on a brass nameplate next to the door.
It read, Camelot Weapons Industries — Holding Site, 3.
Chapter Forty-Six
It was nearly eight a.m. by the time Sam woke up. In the dark fog of an Oregon morning, and without anywhere to be, his internal body clock had allowed him a sleep-in. It didn’t happen often. He rolled over and placed his hand on the bed next to him.
Guinevere was missing.
He sat up with a jolt, a sudden rush of fear teasing at his senses. He switched on the bedside lamp and pulled on a pair of blue denim jeans and a white polo top.
Sam listened, but didn’t hear anything unusual.
He slipped his shoes on and reached for the Walther P99 handgun he’d taken from one of the mercenaries who’d attacked them at Powell’s. It was most likely overkill, but something in his gut told him to be cautious.
Sam quietly stepped out of the bedroom and listened.
He was greeted by silence.
At the bottom of the stairs he waited, listened, and stepped out into the living room ready to shoot.
Guinevere lifted her hands up and said, “Don’t shoot!”
Sam lowered his weapon. “Sorry. I thought something had happened.”
She met his eye, a mischievous smile creeping up on her lips. “I hope you don’t treat every woman you go to bed with like this the next day.”
His brow furrowed. “Sorry. I’m normally a light sleeper. I woke up with a fright when I noticed you weren’t in bed anymore. How are you?”
“I’m good. Caliburn and I are just playing a game.”
She was already dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, and a dark green tank top. The green accentuated her eyes. She looked good. Better than good. Sexy and wholesome. He noticed the distinctive bulge of a handgun tucked into her shorts, and a second one in her left cargo pocket. One to fire quickly, and a spare to follow up with.
Sam’s eyes drifted downward.
On the floor a new game of SCRABBLE had been set up. There were a number of words already played. Most of them were pretty basic. The sort of thing a primary school kid would have been proud of, rather than an adult. Even so, at a glance it was obvious that Caliburn had been making some pretty good words.
Sam said, “You’re playing SCRABBLE with Caliburn?”
“Yep.” She made a coy grin. “I think he’s beating me.”
“Whose turn is it?”
“Caliburn’s.”
“Your go then, Caliburn. I want to see you make your move.”
Sam watched as the dog nosed around some letters to form another word. It was a slow process, but the dog eventually spelled, RUN.
Sam shook his head. “Sorry. It’s too early for a run.”
The dog nudged the word again, this time more emphatically, RUN.
The dog got agitated and started barking wildly.
Sam asked, “What’s wrong?”
Caliburn focused all his concentration on the board and wrote the word, SCARED.
Sam frowned. “Of whatever we found at Cannon Beach?”