Terminal Freeze (4 page)

Dawn burst across the Blue Ridge Mountains with a violent explosion of color. The sun, rising over Mount Marshall, infused the autumn sky with brilliant hues normally confined to a painter’s palette: naphthol and cadmium, magenta and vermilion. The sleepy peaks and slopes were furred with the deep greens and blues of oak, hemlock, maple, and hickory trees. The mountains themselves seemed to exhale the chill air, their breath settling in deep blankets of mist that cloaked the dark valleys and crowned the summits with gauzy rings like monks’ tonsures.

Jeremy Logan eased the rental car up to the Front Royal entrance station, paid the park fee, then accelerated gently away. There were faster ways to reach his destination-Skyline Drive was as sinuous as a snake, with a top speed of thirty-five miles per hour-but he was early, and he hadn’t traveled this road since he was a boy, camping with his father. Ahead, the parkway disappeared into a velvet haze, promising a journey of both discovery and nostalgia.

La Bohème
was playing on the car stereo-the 1946 Toscanini recording, with Licia Albanese as soprano lead-and he turned it off in order to concentrate on the passing scenery. The Shenandoah Valley Overlook: they’d stopped there, he remembered, for deviledham sandwiches and a few snaps of the Instamatic. Next, Low Gap, Compton Gap, Jenkins Gap: each appeared in his windshield in turn, yielding up-almost reluctantly-their stunning vistas of the Shenandoah River, the freckled hills of the Virginia piedmont. Logan had grown up in the low country of South Carolina, and he remembered how-first seeing these sights through boyish eyes-he’d never imagined there could be so much dramatic scenery crammed into such a relatively small space.

At milepost 27, he passed the turnout for the hike up Knob Mountain. He and his father had stopped there, too, and made the two-mile ascent. It had been a warm day, Logan recalled, and the cold canteen hanging from his neck had sweated icy droplets against his skin. His father had been a historian, a stranger to exercise, and the hike winded him. It was at the summit he’d told Logan about the cancer.

At Thornton Gap, Logan exited Skyline Drive, following the state highway along the river and out of the national park. At Sperryville, he turned south onto Route 231 and followed the signs for Old Rag Lodge.

Within ten minutes he was in the shadow of the mountain. At more than three thousand feet, Old Rag was a relatively low peak, but the rock scrambles to its bald top were famously challenging. Yet it was best known not for its hiking opportunities but for the luxury hotel that lay in a bowl-shaped valley near its feet. Old Rag Lodge resembled nothing so much as a vast château, hugely out of place in the wild Virginia terrain. As Logan swung into the private drive and accelerated up a gentle slope, the hotel came into view, a confection of monolithic limestone walls and brilliantly hued stained glass set into mullioned casings. The rambling structure was topped with extravagant cupolas and minarets of copper.

Logan drove past a lush thirty-six-hole golf course, then over the carefully raked drive of white gravel leading to the porte cochere. He gave his keys to the waiting valet, then stepped inside.

“Checking in, sir?” the woman behind the front desk asked.

Logan shook his head. “I’m here for the tour.”

“Viewings of the bunker begin at ten o’clock.”

“I’ve arranged for a private visit. The name’s Logan.” And he slid a business card across the marble top of the reception desk.

The woman examined the card, turned to her computer monitor, typed briefly. “Very good, Dr. Logan. If you’d kindly have a seat in the lobby?”

“Thank you.” Gathering up his briefcase, Logan walked across the echoing, domed expanse and took a seat between two vast Co-rinthian columns wreathed in red silk.

While the lodge had been popular for seven decades among the golfing and hunting aristocrats of the Old Dominion, in the last few years it had developed a stranger reputation. For it was here that-starting in 1952-a large, highly secret underground bunker had been maintained for officials of the United States government. In the event of nuclear war, congressmen, senators, and other functionaries could retreat to the bunker beneath Old Rag Lodge to coordinate military operations, enact new laws, and see to the continuing governance of America -assuming, of course, an America still remained to govern. Looking around the opulent lobby, Logan smiled faintly. It made perfect sense that government leaders had chosen a place like this to hunker down in: far enough from Washington to escape the worst of the holocaust, yet perfectly appointed to ride out Armageddon in comfort and luxury. Although the bunker had gone out of active service in the 1980s, it had not been declassified until 1992. Now it served as historical museum, conspiracy theorist magnet-and unlikely tourist attraction.

Logan glanced up to see a short, slightly tubby man in a white linen suit and panama hat bustle across the lobby. He wore round black glasses and his face was quite pink. He extended a hand. “Dr. Logan?”

Logan rose. “Yes.”

“I’m Percy Hunt, official historian for the lodge. I’ll be your view facilitator this morning.”

View facilitator,
Logan thought as he shook the proffered hand.
Must be what passes for tour guide at the Old Rag Lodge.
“I’m grateful.”

“You’re from Yale, isn’t that correct?” Hunt glanced at a small folded sheet. “ Regina professor of medieval history?”

“Yes. Though at present I’m on academic leave.”

Hunt slipped the paper into his jacket. “Very good. If you’ll follow me, please?”

He led the way to an arch at the far end of the lobby, which gave on to a plushly carpeted hall lined with sporting prints. “There are two entrances to the bunker,” Hunt said. “A large exterior door built into the rear of the mountain-used by trucks and heavy vehicles-and an elevator behind the hotel’s main conference room. We’ll be entering via the latter.”

They passed an indoor swimming pool decorated with faux-Grecian marbles, a banquet hall, and a ballroom, before entering the large and well-appointed conference room. Without pausing, Hunt headed toward a set of double doors in the rear, wallpapered to match the rest of the room. “Congress would have used this space to convene, assuming it remained standing,” he said. “Otherwise, they would have employed the smaller chambers below.” He pointed at the wall ahead of them. “This supports the blast doors protecting the bunker elevator.” Opening the doors with some effort, he revealed a small space with another door at its far end. Unlocking this with a key he kept on a fob, Hunt ushered Logan into a large elevator, painted green. Closing the door, he used the same key to operate the elevator. There were no floor buttons or indicator lights of any kind.

The descent was very long. After thirty seconds or so, Hunt turned toward his guest. “So, Dr. Logan,” he said, “where in particular does your interest lie? The engineering spaces? Personal quarters? Infirmary? I ask because usually researchers who arrange for private tours like this are following up some particular area of expertise. The more you tell me, the better I’ll be able to assist you.”

Logan glanced back. “Actually, Mr. Hunt, it isn’t the bunker per se that I’m interested in.”

Hunt blinked back. “No? Then why-”

“I’m here to examine the Omega Archive.”

Hunt’s eyes widened. “The archive? I’m sorry, but that’s quite impossible.”

“The information in that archive was declassified as of”- Logan glanced at his watch-“eight o’clock this morning. That was seventy minutes ago. It’s now a matter of public record.”

“Yes, yes, but the proper deactivation procedures-vetting, cross-checking, all that sort of thing-need to be attended to first. Requests have to go through proper channels.”

“I’m only interested in a single file. You can observe; I’ll read it in your presence. As for proper channels, I think you’ll find this sufficient to allay any objections.” And Logan opened his briefcase, removed a folded sheet stamped at the top with the United States seal, and handed it to Hunt.

The little man glanced over the letter, eyes widening farther still. He licked his lips. “Very well, Dr. Logan. Very well. I’ll still need to get verbal authorization-”

Logan pointed to the signature at the bottom of the letter. “If you really want to trouble him, feel free to do so-once we’re back in the hotel. I’ll only be a few minutes if I’m allowed to conduct my research unobstructed.”

Hunt removed his glasses, wiped them on his jacket, replaced them, adjusted his straw hat. “May I ask…” his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “May I ask what interest a professor of medieval history has in the Omega Archive?”

Logan glanced at him mildly. “As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Hunt: I’m on administrative leave.”

The elevator creaked open onto a concrete tunnel with a semicircular roof and a floor punctuated by steel grills. “Follow me, please,” Hunt said, walking quickly down the tunnel. It was very chill and raw. A line of incandescent bulbs in circular fixtures, hanging from the ceiling by slender stalks, lit the way. Ganglions of green-painted pipes ran high up along the walls, snaking deeper into the bunker. Hunt set a brisk pace, apparently no longer disposed to conversation. They passed several branching tunnels, what looked like a dormitory, and a large room with television cameras and a back wall covered by a photo of the Capitol building taken in cherry blossom season, before Hunt veered off the main corridor. He led the way through a room full of electrical control panels to a small antechamber that lay beyond. Sliding away a false wall at the rear of the chamber, he revealed a heavy metal door balanced on massive hinges. Taking a different key from his pocket, he fitted it to the central slot. “The archives lie beyond,” he said. “Please locate the file and review it as quickly as possible. I need to get this authorized with all possible haste.”

“I’ll be quick,” Logan replied.

Hunt frowned, nodded. Then, turning the key, he pulled open the door. Air rushed out from the blackness beyond-stale air, dust-laden. The very smell quickened Logan ’s pulse.

The Omega Archive was precisely the kind of find that Jeremy Logan-for whom the title of medieval scholar was something of a genteel, if accurate, smoke screen-lived for. In the years following the Second World War, the government had taken advantage of the built-in security of the congressional bunker to store secret and top-secret military records. Though the bunker itself had been declassified a decade earlier, it had taken many more years-and much political pressure from historians, journalists, and freedom-of-information advocates-to clear away the red tape surrounding the Omega Archive. And while technically the archive had been declassified as of this morning, standard procedure was for representatives from the security agencies to examine its files-and in the process remove many still deemed sensitive-before allowing general public access. Logan had called in several favors in order to gain brief access before this final vetting process began.

The space he stepped into was utterly black, but some sixth sense told him it was large-very large. He felt along the wall, found a bank of at least two dozen light switches, and snapped a few on at random.

With a low boom, rows of fluorescents began flickering into life here and there ahead of him, creating small pools of yellow in a sea of darkness. He switched on additional lights and, finally, the entire archive came into view: row after row after row of ten-foot-tall olive-green cabinets arranged in regular columns, marching back almost out of sight. He stood in the doorway, blinking, gradually accustoming himself to the scale. The space before him was wider than a football field and at least as long. His eye traveled over the banks of files. The amount of potentially fascinating information stored in here-official secrets, scientific pa tents, confiscated cultural and national patrimony, sets of sworn testimony whose contradictions would prove most enlightening-could keep him happily occupied for years.

A restless movement beside him reminded Logan he was working on borrowed time. With a smile and a nod, he took a fresh grip on his briefcase and strode forward. The file that interested him in particular concerned an event that took place in Italy in 1944. While fighting the Germans for control of Cassino, units of the American Fifth Army commandeered an ancient fortress-the Castello Diavilous. The long-deserted castle had once been home to an infamous alchemist who performed extremely unsettling experiments. Following the occupation, the castle was burned to the ground, its secret basement laboratory ransacked. Logan had been tracking the alchemist’s accomplishments and the fate of his bizarre experiments. His best hope to learn more, he now knew, was here, among the moldering files of the Omega Archive.

He proceeded briskly down the tall metal ranks, peering at the labels on the cabinets at random. He quickly determined they were chronological, further subdivided by armed services branch. It was the work of ten minutes to locate 1944; five more to bracket the files related to the Fifth Army; another sixty seconds to pinpoint dossiers related to the Italian theater of operations. He pulled the appropriate drawer to its maximum. There were perhaps three feet worth of manila-and khaki-colored files related to operations at Cassino. They were dusty and badly faded, but otherwise appeared to be barely touched. A quick flip through the titles located a thick file labeled “ Fort Diavilous -Tactical and Strategic.”

He glanced over at Hunt, who was standing nearby, looking on like a disapproving chaperone. “Is there a reading table nearby I can use for my examination?”

Hunt blinked, sniffed. “The commissary is down the hall past the electrical substation,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”

Logan pulled out the file, prepared to close the drawer. Then he stopped. Removing the file had exposed another behind it, almost equally faded. Its title tab had been stamped with a single word: “Fear.”

Instinctively, Logan reached for it, pulled it forward. It was very thin. Behind it lay another file, identical, stamped with the same word.