Old Earth (18 page)

“Thank you, Ms. Dunbar,” he replied with a more conciliatory tone. Inwardly he was determined to rid himself of the witch. “You may leave now.” Kavanaugh picked up the envelope and walked to
his
new desk. Without another word he sat in the chair that still held the mold of Martin Gruber’s ass.

The letter was in Gruber’s own hand. Three pages long. Instantly ponderous and full of the same tone Kavanaugh had come to despise.

Congratulations, young man. The job is finally yours. You may feel it’s long overdue. You probably wondered when, or if, I’d actually depart. At last that time has come. However, even though I am no longer there to quiz you, the greatest tests of your life are still ahead. Will you have the moral fibre to do what must be done, to decide, to lead, to implement? It, of course, is no longer what I believe. You must now prove it to yourself. Prove it to Autem Semita. Prove it to God Almighty.

More lectures.
The importance of everything had been drummed into his head every way. Kavanaugh knew it all. He believed in
The Path
and the absolute responsibility he inherited. It’s just that Colin Kavanaugh was ready to do it on his own. New times called for new solutions. And a new boss to call the shots.

You will live your duty. It remains a nagging internal voice when you fall asleep and when you awaken. It is your wife and mistress, but not your friend. And if you fail, you fail more than yourself. You fail history. You change things that cannot be unchanged.

Three full pages. More rambling advice. Nothing Kavanaugh hadn’t been told to his face time and time again.

Kavanaugh now waited for Dunbar to leave. The rest he would do without interruption.

Thirty minutes later, she finally went through her exit ritual: pushing her chair straight in, locking her drawers, making sure everything was in its place on her desktop, removing her purse from the closet, and taking perfectly measured steps to the door.

Once gone, Kavanaugh began his real search—through Gruber’s desk and the hidden compartments behind the false backs.

For more than a year he wanted to find out what was in there.

Secretum,
he thought. Now, he was going to learn it all.

P
ART
T
WO

Twenty-five

THE CAVE

McCauley counted on life’s standard frames of references. The sun rises and sets. Sixty seconds to a minute. Sixty minutes to an hour. Twenty-four hours in a day. The earth beneath stays where it’s supposed to, except during earthquakes. And baseball has nine innings.

But there was no frame of reference for the teacher and students who returned to the cave, especially as their eyes widened to the perplexing sight now lit by their newly purchased propane lamps.

“What is this?” Alpert asked.

“Dr. Quinn?” Leslie Cohen needed reassurance.

“I….” Rich Tamburro couldn’t get past the pronoun.

Tom Trent was speechless.

It was as if everyone was waiting for Quinn McCauley to explain things.

“What the hell?” Katrina Alpert mouthed, but hardly articulated.

“Everyone take a deep breath. Lanterns in front. Slowly now.” McCauley remained calm and authoritative.

Ten steps forward he said, “Okay, stop.” He raised his light and examined the wall ahead of them, first closely…only inches away, then from two feet, and ten feet back. It was as if it wasn’t there, concealed by the blackest black he’d ever seen.

“Jesus,” Tamburro proclaimed. “I can’t see it.”

“It’s absorbing all the light,” McCauley said.

Jaffe came forward and touched the surface. “Smooth. Metallic. No sign of corrosion. Gold, silver, iron, galvanized steel would all show corrosion. This doesn’t feel like there’s any.”

Next, Dr. Alpert touched the surface. She looked at her hands in the light and rubbed her thumb against her forefinger. “And no dust. This place is very well maintained. A lot cleaner than your motel room,” she directed to McCauley.

“What was that?” Jaffe asked with keen interest.

“Nothing,” McCauley quickly stated. “Can we stay focused on our observations?”

“Corporate?” Tamburro offered.

Jaffe disagreed. “Military.”

“Military?” Alpert repeated.

“That’s what I’m leaning toward, too,” McCauley said. “Left over from the Cold War.”

Katrina Alpert looked at her hand again. “With a full-time maid to dust?”

• • •

The natural thing to do was to take pictures. Leslie Cohen was the first to try.

“My cell’s not acting right. Can’t hold the charge. It’s going on and off.”

Rich Tamburro found the same on his. In fact, none of their phones fired up long enough to shoot any pictures.

“Something in here is neutralizing the circuits,” Jaffe concluded. “Anyone up on electrical anomalies?”

“Not me,” said Cohen. “I stop at about Brachiosaurous.”

“Beats me,” Lobel said.

“Anyone else?”

No takers.

“Okay time for another plan,” McCauley began.

“Is that Plan B or C, now?” Alpert asked.

• • •

“Okay, who has some thoughts?” McCauley was opening up discussion around the evening campfire. “Like who the hell would build such a facility in the middle of nowhere?”

Tamburro started with the
Twilight Zone
theme.

“Gonna need more than that.”

“Okay, then it’s like Area 51,” he continued. “We uncovered a secret facility.”

“Yeah, like maybe one the government just forgot about,” Lobel proposed. “How else can you explain the electro-static
thingy
that also zaps dust away. Love that patent!”

“The government doesn’t just forget about places like this,” McCauley argued.

“Then ancient aliens,” Tom Trent interjected. “Wouldn’t that be something! A ragtag team of paleontologists discover proof of ancient aliens. Talk about irony.”

“Someone do a Google search on super light absorbent materials,” McCauley proposed. “Okay?”

“Super absorbent? Like Bounty?” Trent joked.

“Yes, but Bounty for light,” he replied.

They continued to speculate, with no basis on which to hang any real theory. Jaffe was the only one not throwing out ideas. He was on his computer.

During a lull in the discussion Tamburro saddled over to McCauley.

“Doc, I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“The other night when we were listening to the radio on the way back from town… .”

“Yes.”

“The guy being interviewed… .”

“The conspiracy nut?”

“That guy. I think he might have some insight.”

“In made-up shit.”

“Getting government documents released through the Freedom of Information Act more than anyone else. That’s for real. He’s been at it for years. You won’t have to tell him much, but I think you might gather some intel.”

“And my dear spy,” McCauley whispered and smiled to Alpert who sat out of earshot, “tells my chair I’m relying on crackpots as experts. Just great.”

Tamburro laughed. “You won’t be the first professor to be accused of that. Just talk to him.”

“He’s a quack.”

“He researches stuff. So do you. He goes on late night talk radio. So do you.”

McCauley threw his hands up in frustration. Dr. Alpert caught the gesture and joined the conversation.

Dr. Alpert caught this part of the exchange. “Do what?”

“Toss my career in the toilet. Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Tamburro said ignoring McCauley’s comment and Alpert’s question.

“I’ll think about. That’s as far as I’ll go now.”

“Just engage him a little. Nothing specific. Keep the lid on it.”

“Engage who?” Alpert asked.

McCauley waved her off just as Jaffe yelled, “Got it!” He turned back to the conversation and looked up from his computer.

“Doc was right. A British company invented a thing called
Vantablack
. Made from carbon nanotubes, whatever the fuck they are. It absorbs all but .035 percent of visual light. Set a new world record.”

“A new record for doing what?” Rodriguez showed more interest.

“I guess the amount of light it could absorb. Here, it says there are vast applications in photography and telescopes. Better ways to focus primary light sources and block out others.
Vantablack
is so dark the human eye can’t grasp what it’s seeing.” Jaffe paused. “Sound familiar?”

“Sure does,” Lobel said excitedly. “Did we stumble onto a beta test?”

“Or a practical application?” Tamburro added.

“I don’t think so,” McCauley offered. “They’ve got labs for stuff like that. Why would a British company be doing anything in a cave here in Montana?”

The team members looked at one another for an answer

“Not a company,” Leslie Cohen quietly offered. “Like you were saying before, it’s government. I’ve read about places like this. CDC or nuclear waste facilities. They lock the door and throw away the keys. We shouldn’t be messing with it.”

“Thank you. Back to my point,” Tamburro interrupted.

McCauley turned to the student. “I said…”

“Right,” Tamburro backed down.

“Look, it’s clearly out of our area,” Trent interjected. “I’m with Leslie. We shouldn’t be messing with it.”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Alpert’s comment came as a surprise, particularly to McCauley. “Maybe one more trip?”

McCauley was taken by her enthusiasm. She shrugged and added, “For the sake of scientific curiosity. What do you say, Dr. McCauley? Up for an adventure?”

Twenty-six

LONDON
EARLY THE NEXT DAY

Kavanaugh eagerly evaluated Ten’s latest summaries. The developments would surely be his first true test of will. He needed to know more.

Kavanaugh flew up the stairs to quiz the principal in Ten who was compiling the ever-expanding file. He was tall and blond, with an air of danger lurking within. Not the kind of person who would be attracted to a life indoors doing research. But he was in his mid-fifties and likely happy to have job stability.

“Get your coffee and come with me. We have to talk.” The man followed without objection. They went to the rooftop deck and sat at a table under a shade umbrella.

Kavanaugh didn’t even know the researcher’s last name or how he’d lost his index finger on his left hand. He’d have to find out, make him feel needed, and stress how much he would rely on him.

“Simon, I want you to clear your desk of all your general searches to exclusively focus on this.”

Simon—Volker was his last name—didn’t say thank you. He was not that kind of man. A nod was enough.

“Done. I’ll move up one of the night team.”

“Good. Now tell me what you have,” Kavanaugh insisted.

Kavanaugh listened to a report that greatly troubled him. He decided he had to act. The prospects actually excited him.

• • •

LATE AFTERNOON

Colin Kavanaugh believed he had the resolve to do whatever was necessary. The only problem—there was no glory other than what he could feel himself. No bragging rights. No accolades. No tributes. He wondered how others had dealt with such invisibility. He never thought to ask Gruber. Living a double life. A life of secrecy suddenly took on more meaning.
To never have anyone really know.
This was going to be hard to live with.

The thoughts continued to consume him at Martin Gruber’s funeral. Aside from Dunbar, seven colleagues from
Voyages
and the old waiter from Brown’s, few mourners came to pay their last respects at the Brompton Cemetery Chapel in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. In final interment, Martin Gruber would be joining royalty, scientists, explorers, artists and statesmen, though Colin Kavanaugh most enjoyed that the sanctuary was used in the James Bond movie,
GoldenEye
.

Kavanaugh ignored the platitudes in the priest’s sermon. Surely he had no real idea who he was burying. Kavanaugh also dismissed the visible displays of sorrow from his associates. He wrote it off as employees wanting to make sure that they were seen mourning by their new boss. And the waiter? Leon. His appearance puzzled him.

When the service was over, Kavanaugh politely lingered, thanked the clueless clergyman, and noticed that the waiter was making slow passage to talk to him. Kavanaugh extended his hand and spoke first.

“It’s nice of you to come.”

“Mr. Gruber was kind to me over the many years I served him,” the sixty-eight year old man replied. “Rest assured, I’ll
serve
you just as if Mr. Gruber was seated right there. Your table will always be available.”

Kavanaugh struggled to understand the comment.
Your
table, not
a table.

“Thank you,” Kavanaugh replied. He really wondered if he even wanted to continue the ritual.

“I can expect to see you this week.”

Kavanaugh now felt unsure if Leon had proposed a question or made a statement. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must talk to Mr. Gruber’s assistant.”

Kavanaugh quickly excused himself and cut across the lawn to intercept Dunbar.

“Ms. Dunbar, all things considered, I’d like you to take the rest of the week off to collect your thoughts.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said as coldly as anything she ever stated. “We have a great deal to consider. I’ll be in tomorrow at the normal time.”

“Thank you, Ms. Dunbar, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Yes it is, Mr. Kavanaugh. Yes it is.”

Twenty-seven

GLENDIVE, MT
THE SAME DAY

The checkout clerk at the hardware store must have thought the now familiar group of fossil hunters was planning on lighting up the whole park. They purchased ten more gas lamps and an equal number of fuel canisters. McCauley put it on his credit cards again, without a thought about the air miles he was accumulating. Just before paying, he spotted something he hadn’t seen in years.