Finding the entrance wasn't easy. They wandered around for several minutes trying to locate it, until Chase happened to come upon a sloping gully that was partly filled with sand, rocks and sagebrush. He gave it a glance and almost passed on before noticing that the shallow bank of sand followed a regular stepped pattern. It was a flight of steps leading down to a studded metal door that was silted three quarters of the way up. After scooping the sand away they were then able, with a little forceful persuasion, to slide the door open.
Chase led the way with an iodine halogen lamp into the musty passages of slabbed concrete, strung with skeins of thick multicolored cables secured by aluminum cladding. The cladding was brightly polished, proving that Prothero had been right about the installation: It was still in remarkably good condition.
The bright circle of light probed walls and ceiling and picked out arrows painted in different colors where the passage branched in several directions. Beneath the arrows, in corresponding colors, they saw:
complex 88-B
red dock
green dock
blue dock launch control master engineer electrical stores
The beam roved higher and Nick said, "I don't like the sound of that, Gav."
Above the arrows somebody had written in chalk:
"It doesn't fill me with unbounded optimism," Chase said, swinging the lamp away and moving on.
Taking one of the wider passages they came upon three enormous freight elevators with their doors yawning wide, big enough to take a truck apiece. Farther on, a wide concrete stairway with the edges of the steps painted yellow led downward. As they descended Chase took careful note of each turning and the number of levels; he didn't have a plan of the complex and he didn't fancy getting lost in several hundred miles of tunnels.
Three levels down and ninety feet underground they came to the Launch Control room, row upon row of empty metal racks and faceless consoles, the equipment and instrumentation stripped away. One panel remained intact, its fascia protected by a solidly bolted stainless-steel cover two inches thick. Nick read out the inscription.
" 'Silo Door Release Mechanism.' " He fingered one of the bolts. "Pity we can't find out if it still works."
At the very bottom of the missile silo they were able to gaze up the circular shaft lined with black ceramic heat-deflector tiles to the silo door itself, two hundred feet above them, dimly reflecting the beam of the flashlight.
Chase's ghostly voice echoed upward. "They had to keep the missiles at a constant sixty degrees Fahrenheit and thirty percent humidity. The air-conditioning plant in just one of these silos is enough for a one-hundred-twenty-room hotel."
Nick said, "And if it's radiation-proof, which it must be, it's got to be airtight as well. It could have been custom-built."
They looked at each other, their faces bathed in the penumbra of the upturned beam, the same thought in both their minds. The silo and adjoining control rooms were a self-contained sealed enclosure. They could provide protection and life support irrespective of the conditions outside. There were over a hundred such silos in this complex alone, connected by two to three hundred miles of tunnels. Desert Range was perfect.
On the way back up, pausing for breath on one of the landings, Nick said, "Has it occurred to you that the joker who christened this hole might have been a prophet as well as a cynic?"
Chase frowned at him. "Christened it?"
Nick gestured upward, his expression lugubrious. "The Tomb."
A few minutes later they were climbing over the sand and windblown debris that had spilled through the door. Chase switched off the lamp, squinting in the daylight. A shadow rippled down the sandcovered steps, and Chase stopped and stared at the figure of a man, the clear blue sky behind him so that his face was in shadow. All that Chase could make out was spiky blond hair, and recognition came to him instantly, without effort; the time of their last encounter telescoped so that it might have been yesterday. Chase's throat was parched dry. He was thirsty and he was also afraid.
Sturges turned and disappeared from view. Nick stumbled up the shallow slope behind Chase. "Who is that?"
A six-wheeled square-bodied van, painted silver, with large rectangular smoke-blue windows was parked not far away. Attached to it was a long streamlined silver trailer, rounded at both ends like a bullet. Van and trailer bore an embossed motif in the shape of a golden conch shell.
Sturges stood by the open door of the trailer. Under the full glare of the sun his eyes were screwed tight and hidden in a slit of shadow beneath a tanned, deeply lined forehead and shaggy brows. He waited impassively, a glint of gold at his throat and wrist.
"I don't get this," Nick murmured in Chase's ear. "What's happening? What's going on?"
"I think we're about to find out."
