Submerged (23 page)

“To save an extra step when diving for cover.
One step can make the difference between being shot at and being
shot.”

“So he really believes he’s in Vietnam,”
Henry said.

“Did you believe you were in the desert when
you first walked into this place? Yeah, he believes it all right. I
still have all my faculties, and I believe I’m in Nam. I’m sweating
bullets.”

“The temperature hasn’t changed,” Henry
said.

“It’s not the temperature that’s making me
sweat.”

Henry studied Nash. He had met many soldiers
who had done tours of duty in the jungle. Most refused to talk
about their experiences, especially to someone who had never been
there. There were different kinds of wounds. Mortars, rifles, land
mines, and booby traps inflicted one kind of injury, but the mind
often suffered more harm than the body. Henry was conflicted about
the war. Most people in the country were, but he never harbored
animosity for those who wore the uniform and served. Maybe someday
his opinion would land on one side or the other, but it wasn’t
going to be today.

“Let me show you something,” Nash said. “You
see this track?”

“Sure. It’s an impression from McDermott’s
boot.”

“The pattern is the same as my boot. We’re
wearing standard combat boots. In Vietnam we wore a jungle boot.
They were lighter and breathed better.”

“I’m not following,” Henry admitted.

“The soles are different. They leave a
different pattern. This—” he pointed at the impression— “is the
sole-print of McDermott’s combat boot, not a jungle boot.”

Henry thought for a moment. “Meaning that
this place has changed our surroundings, but . . .”

“But can’t change everything,” Nash said.
“Another thing, have you seen any wildlife?”

“I saw a monkey and some birds.”

“Did you hear them?” Nash pressed.

Henry shook his head. “No. In fact, I don’t
hear much of anything.”

“Exactly. I’ve spent some very long months in
Vietnam, and I know its sounds and its smells. I don’t know who or
what makes the changes, but there are some things missing.”

Henry turned back toward the trail they had
just traveled. It was free of tracks. He then looked forward and
could see McDermott’s tracks. He pointed it out to Nash.

“That is weird,” Nash said. “There should be
three sets of tracks.”

“It’s more than weird, it’s significant.
Guess we’re meant to follow McDermott. Our tracks disappear behind
us, but his remain in place before us. That doesn’t happen by
accident; it requires intelligence.” Henry paused. “We’re being
guided.”

“For some reason, that gives me a chill,”
Nash said.

“It terrifies me,” Henry admitted. “Let’s
keep going.”

“Are you a man of prayer, Sachs?” Nash
asked.

The question caught Henry off guard. “I
am.”

“I thought so. In Nam I learned to find the
religious people. I wanted to be close to the prayers.”

“Didn’t you offer up your own prayers?”

Nash shook his head. “Me and God aren’t
talking. But if you feel like praying, you might ask that when we
catch up to McDermott, we don’t look like the VC. I’d hate to be
shot by my own man.”

“I’d hate to be shot by any man.”

Nash rose and continued forward. Henry
followed in slow cadence, but his mind was moving fast. He took
Nash’s suggestion to pray.

As the minutes passed, Zeisler grew tired of
looking out the door. Sanders stood at the base of the ramp where
he had watched Henry and Nash follow McDermott. He made no effort
to hide his concern.

“So what are you thinking, Sanders? No, let
me guess.”

Sanders gave an annoyed look. “Take your best
shot, Dr. Zeisler.”

“You’re juggling several thoughts.” Zeisler
shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Thought
one: ‘What in the world got into my
highly
trained,
deeply
disciplined, proven Mr.
McDermott?’ Right?”

“With all due respect, that’s a pretty easy
guess.”

“Ah, forget respect. This is the seventies.
The world thrives on mistrust and disrespect. Here’s your second
thought: ‘Should I lead the others out of this place until
McDermott is—’what’s the right word?—‘handled’?”

Sanders nodded. “It’s true; I’m concerned
about your safety. Mr. McDermott is armed and not his usual
self.”

“Your third thought: ‘I may fail in my
mission.’ ”

Sanders laughed. “You should have a show in
Vegas instead of hiding your talents under the bushel of
engineering.”

“Yes, it’s true. I
am
remarkable in many areas.” Zeisler paused. “You
know I’m kidding, don’t you? I only affect arrogance. When it suits
my purposes.”

“I caught the sarcasm,” Sanders said. “What
do you think we should do?”

Zeisler studied him. He doubted that Sanders
was looking for help to make a decision. The man had the bearing of
someone accustomed to giving orders. At most, he was being polite.
Perhaps he was trying to probe Zeisler’s attitude. It didn’t
matter. Zeisler answered anyway. “Leading us out is no guarantee of
safety. If McDermott’s emotional train has rounded the bend, he
could be hiding and waiting for us to backtrack to the
entrance—assuming we could find the entrance. Everything’s changed.
I bet we could get lost with no trouble at all.”

“I agree. You are safer here.”

“As far as the success or failure of this
mission goes, I know this: Success comes from effort. I say we get
back to work. Nash and Henry can take care of themselves.” Zeisler
didn’t wait for a response. He marched up the ramp and through the
tent opening. “I liked it better when it was a house,” he said over
his shoulder.

Inside Zeisler found the other members of the
team standing next to the far wall. Cynthia’s skin was ashen; she
looked shaken. She rubbed her hands as if she were standing on
snow. Grant’s arms were folded across his chest as if the events
had had no impact on him. He would have pulled off the ruse if he
hadn’t been biting his lip.

“Let’s get to work,” Zeisler said
cheerfully.

“Who died and made you commander?” Grant
snapped.

“No one. I just think that we were brought
here for a reason and that we ought to get busy.” Zeisler saw their
eyes shift to movement over his shoulder. He turned and saw Sanders
walk in.

“This place has me so creeped out that I
don’t think I can do any meaningful work,” Cynthia confessed. She
rubbed her hands again.

“Fear evaporates under scrutiny,” Zeisler
said.

“What half-baked philosopher said that?”
Grant asked.

“Me. Feel free to quote me. Just give credit
where credit is due.” Zeisler stepped to the spot where Henry had
poured the sand and the “thing” had come to life. He bent and ran
his fingers along the floor, then rose and examined them. “Clean as
a surgical floor.” He looked at the others. “Okay, let’s start with
our little multi-legged friend. What do we know?”

“It’s no friend of mine,” Grant said.

“Come on, folks. Sanders here picked you
because you are some of the best in your field. You are trained
people with analytical minds. Use them. What do we know?”

“Well,” Cynthia began, then stopped. As she
studied the spot, the shock of what had happened was still clear in
her eyes.

“Well what?” Zeisler prompted.

“It was self-assembling,” Cynthia said.
“Smaller elements self-constructed into a larger entity.”

“And what can we infer from that?” Zeisler’s
question was met with silence. “Come on, come on, you’re letting
your emotions cloud your thinking. Monte, you’re the civil
engineer. If you drive down the freeway and see a bridge, do you
assume that it came to be by some form of self-assembly?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A great deal of work
goes into designing and building a bridge. The math alone is . .
.”

Zeisler grinned at Sanders. “I think the
light just went on.”

Grant continued. “The creature assembled
itself into a form that allowed it to escape. Its design followed
its function.”

“So what we have is a creature that assembles
itself in order to move from one environment to another. Cynthia,
name a simple organism. Keep it simple for us engineers.”

She thought for a second. “The best-known is
the one we learn about in grade school—the paramecium.”

“Good,” Zeisler said. “Describe it.”

“Not much to describe. It’s a microscopic
organism, genus
protozoa
, phylum
Ciliophora
. Under the microscope, it looks
a little like a slipper. It’s found in freshwater.”

“How big is it?” Zeisler asked.

“Like I said, it’s microscopic, .25 mm in
length. It moves through the water by moving hundreds of
microscopic hairlike cilia. Let’s see . . . it’s asexual and
multiplies by transverse binary fission. It has a macronucleus and
a micronucleus—”

“Would you call it a simple organism?”
Zeisler asked.

“Sure.”

“Could you make one in your kitchen?”

Cynthia frowned. “Biologists have been trying
to create life in a test tube for a very long time. It hasn’t been
done yet.”

Zeisler smiled. “So why is it called a simple
life form?”

“Where is this going, Victor?” Grant
asked.

“Hold on to your slide rule, Monte.”

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “They’re called
simple because they’re single-cell organisms.”

“But there’s nothing simple about them, is
there?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay, so what we saw was a pile of sand
become a walking, six-legged creature,” Zeisler said. “Now think
with me. The grains of sand—maybe I should call it ‘powder’ since
Henry demonstrated that the grains break down to smaller
components. The powder organizes into a shape that fits its
purpose. Each grain, or flake, or whatever it is, organizes. Some
become legs, some a body, and some into sensory devices that allow
it to move forward without bumping into walls. All of that requires
design, intent, and implementation.”

“We knew there was design the moment we
stepped foot in this place,” Grant said. “This is redundant.”

Zeisler walked to the only structure inside
the room: the four-foot-high, twelve-foot-diameter ring with its
pile of sand. He studied the odd arrangement. “If a couple of
handfuls of sand can self-assemble into a walking creature, then I
wonder what this pit can produce.”

The others joined him. “The question alone
frightens me,” Cynthia said.

Zeisler looked at her, then Grant, then
Sanders. He placed both hands on the ring, then jumped in.

There was a flash, a droning noise, then
motion.

Cynthia screamed.

Chapter23

“He’s gone
again,”
Carl said. “How does he do that?”

Perry had been watching the mysterious
Barrett as he plodded along ahead of them. Carl was pushing for a
faster pace, but Zeisler was reluctant to spend the energy. Even
so, they should have been closing the gap. Yet Barrett remained
twenty yards ahead of them.

“Because he is not the man you’re looking
for,” Zeisler said.

“I think he is,” Janet said. “I know he is.
I’ve seen his picture. He had gone fishing on the lake. He’s wet.
Maybe he fell out of his boat.”

“Think that through, Deputy,” Zeisler
snapped. “Do you see any water around here? Did you see any water
around the tracks we saw? If he disappeared a few days ago, then
why is he still wet? Why do his tracks appear, then disappear? How
is it that he’s walking in front of us one moment and is gone the
next? Think, Deputy. Use your brain.”

“I for one would like to hear you offer some
answers instead of raising questions, Dr. Zeisler.” Jack’s tone was
as cool as steel. Perry expected it. Jack tolerated many things,
but he couldn’t endure rudeness for very long.

“Amen to that,” Gleason said.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,”
Zeisler claimed. “You’re going to have to see it for yourself.”

“I’ve already seen a man disappear before my
eyes,” Perry said, “and I’m walking in an underground cavern that
appears to have a sky above it. I’m having trouble believing my
eyes. I think it’s time you open up.”

“I’ll open up when I’m good and ready.”

Perry stopped mid-step and spun.

“Uh-oh.” Jack took a step back. So did
Gleason.

Bridging the distance between them in two
steps, Perry placed his face next to Zeisler’s. “In case you’ve
forgotten, I’m here to try and save my father’s life. If I can’t do
that, then I at least want to find a reason for his death. You
agreed to help. Are you a man of your word or not?”

“Of course not,” Zeisler snapped back. “I’ve
been sworn to secrecy about this place. I signed documents pledging
to forever hold my silence, yet I’ve brought you here. Does that
sound like a man of his word?”

Perry’s frustration grew. Age had taken
nothing of Zeisler’s mind. He was sharp, determined, and cranky.
Perry turned and started forward again, his eyes set on the blocky
structure in the distance. He picked up the pace.

“All right, all right,” Zeisler said. “Just
slow down. I’m not crippled, but I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“Talk or walk alone,” Perry replied.

“Okay. Maybe it’s time for Uncle Zeisler to
tell you boys and girls a little story.”

“It had better be about this place,” Perry
remarked.

“First, let me answer Deputy Subick’s
question. As I’ve said, the thing—the man you call Barrett—isn’t
who you think he is. He’s a fabrication.”

“He looked real enough to me,” Carl said.

“Do you want to hear this or not? I didn’t
say he was a fabrication of imagination. He’s real enough. You
could arm wrestle with the guy if you wanted. I mean that he is a
construct, a product, something built. He is not a man. He is a
thing.”