"... a new breed of human being that can survive in the most hostile environmental conditions. Something with twice the normal lung capacity and inbuilt resistance to chemical pollution." The voice hardened, became emphatic. "It should be possible. It
"Starbuck man," said the dreamy voice of Major Jones. "Heirs to the New Earth. Two hundred years from now it could be the only species left."
Rolsom's voice was more cautious. "Can we be certain the Russians or the Chinese aren't working along the same lines? They could have advanced even more than we have--"
"No," said Colonel Madden, not entertaining the remotest doubt. "The Chinese don't have the scientific expertise and the Russians are concentrating on the extermination plan." He addressed Rolsom directly. "That's why the work you're doing in Zone Two with TCDD is just as important as the work here in genetic manipulation. The Longfellow extermination plan is a vitally important element in our overall strategy. On that we cooperate
invite them to look over Zone Two if necessary. Demonstrate our total commitment and cooperation." "Zone Two." Major Jones's voice. "Not Zone Four." "Not Zone Four," Madden's voice repeated. "That's our baby." Rolsom's voice. "Literally." Jones's voice.
The Desert Range missile silo complex straddled the state line dividing Utah and Nevada. Although sited geographically in Utah, part ot the labyrinthine network of tunnels actually extended across the border.
Chase and Nick Power arrived at Wah Wah Springs after a seven-teen-hour journey by aircraft, bus, and finally diesel-engined jeep. As Prothero had said, the nearest towns were considerable distances away: Richfield one hundred miles due east, Cedar City about eighty miles southwest of the complex. There were a few small settlements-- Black Rock, Milford, Lund, Beryl--but none of them nearer than forty miles. Chase had to admit that it was the perfect location.
With Nick at the wheel they drove along a crumbling concrete road with weeds and sagebrush growing in the cracks and gutters. The terrain was bleak. Undulating desert scrub as far as the eye could see, the ground compacted and fissured through lack of rain. There were no signposts--no visible evidence at all, in fact, that this had once been a restricted military zone.
"How much did you say the MX system cost?" asked Nick, lolling back and steering with one hand. The road went straight as an arrow into the far distance.
"Eighty billion dollars, give or take the odd billion." Chase shaded his eyes. "Altogether they constructed forty-six hundred silos connected by ten thousand miles of roads and two thousand miles of railway track spread across southern Nevada and southwest Utah. They planned to have two hundred missiles with nuclear warheads constantly moving on five-hundred-ton transporters, so each missile had the option of twenty-two available silos. It was a crazy idea and it never worked. They hoped to keep the Russians guessing at which silo any one missile was at any given moment."
"Christ, a bloody expensive permutation if you ask me," Nick commented with a weary shake of the head.
"Bloody futile as well," Chase said. "By the time the system was completed and operational in the mid-nineties, it was already obsolete. You know, it cost three hundred dollars for every man, woman, and child in the United States. And this"--he swept his arm out to indicate the barren landscape--"is what they got for their money."
"Come on now," Nick chided him. "You're forgetting the four thousand six hundred holes in the ground. I bet the gophers were extremely grateful."
Fifteen minutes later they passed a concrete blockhouse almost completely buried in windblown sand. Chase unfolded the army map supplied by Prothero. The main installations were marked as broken red lines, indicating that they were below ground. The blockhouse was shown as a solid black dot, with the designation GP5.
"Guardpost five," Chase said, putting the map away. "Not far now. About six miles to the complex itself."
"How many silos in this one?"
"One hundred and fourteen in an area of two hundred square miles."
"Hey, Gav"--Nick glanced at him, eyes narrowed, struck by an uncomfortable thought--"! hope to God they've removed all the fucking missiles. Have they?" When Chase grinned and nodded, Nick blew out his cheeks. "Thank the Lord for that!"
Aboveground there was only a radio communications tower to be seen, with the antennae and microwave dish removed, held by taut steel guy wires that sang in the wind. Because of the dry desert air the tower and wires were untarnished, without a speck of rust.
