be a hundred percent by the weekend. Mr. Croninger, if you’ll give these two gentlemen your keys, they’ll bring your luggage along for you.” Phil did, and the two men began to unload suitcases and boxes from the Roamer.
“I’ve got computer equipment,” Roland told the young man. “It’ll be okay, won’t it?”
“Sure will. You folks just hop aboard here and I’ll take you to your quarters. Corporal Mathis?” he said, addressing one of the baggage-handlers, “Those go to Section C, Number Sixteen. You folks ready?” Phil had gotten into the front passenger’s seat, and his wife and son in the back. Phil nodded, and the young man drove them across the parking deck and into a corridor-concrete-floored and lined with lights-that angled gently downward. A cool breeze circulated from an occasional strategically placed ceiling fan. Other corridors branched off from the first, and there were arrows that pointed to Sections A, B and C.
“I’m Hospitality Sergeant Schorr.” The young man offered his hand, and Phil shook it. “Glad to have you with us. Are there any questions I can answer for you?”
“Well, I’ve taken the tour-back in April-and I know about Earth House,” Phil explained, “but I don’t think my wife and son got the full impact from the pamphlets. Elise was worried about the air circulation down here.”
Schorr laughed. “Not to worry, Mrs. Croninger. We’ve got two state-of-the-art air-filtration systems, one on-line and one backup. The system would power up within one minute of a Code Red-that’s when we’re… uh… expecting impact and we seal the vents. Right now, though, the fans are drawing in plenty of air from outside, and I can guarantee you that the air on Blue Dome Mountain is probably the cleanest you’ll ever breathe. We’ve got three living areas-Sections A, B and C-on this level, and underneath us is the Command Center and Maintenance Level. Down there, fifty feet below us, is the generator room, the weapons supply, the emergency food and water supply, the radar room and the officers’ quarters. By the way, we have a policy of storing all incoming firearms in our weapons supply. Did you happen to have any with you?”
“Uh… a.357 Magnum,” Phil said. “Under the back seat. I didn’t know about that policy.”
“Well, I’m sure you overlooked it in the contract you signed, but I think you’ll agree all firearms should be localized for the safety of Earth House residents. Right?” He smiled at Phil, and Phil nodded. “We’ll code it and give you a receipt, and when you leave us in two weeks you’ll get it back cleaned and shining.”
“What lands of weapons do you have down there?” Roland asked eagerly.
“Oh, pistols, automatic rifles, submachine guns, mortars, flamethrowers, grenades, antipersonnel and antivehicle mines, flares-about everything you can think of. And of course we keep our gas masks and antiradiation suits down there, too. When this place was put together, Colonel Macklin wanted it to be an impregnable fortress, and that’s exactly what it is.”
Colonel Macklin, Roland thought. Colonel James “Jimbo” Macklin. Roland was familiar with the name through articles in the survivalist and weaponry magazines that his father subscribed to. Colonel Macklin had a long record of success as a 105-D Thunderchief pilot over North Vietnam, had been shot down in 1971 and had been a POW until the end of the war; then he’d gone back into Vietnam and Indochina looking for MIAs, and had fought with soldiers of fortune in South Africa, Chad and Lebanon. “Will we get to meet Colonel Macklin?”
“Orientation is at 0800 hours sharp, in the Town Hall. He’ll be there.”
They saw a sign reading SECTION C with an arrow pointing to the right. Sergeant Schorr turned off the main corridor, and the tires jubbled over bits of concrete and rock that littered the floor. Water was dripping from above into a widening puddle, and it wet all of them
“I’ve got computer equipment,” Roland told the young man. “It’ll be okay, won’t it?”
“Sure will. You folks just hop aboard here and I’ll take you to your quarters. Corporal Mathis?” he said, addressing one of the baggage-handlers, “Those go to Section C, Number Sixteen. You folks ready?” Phil had gotten into the front passenger’s seat, and his wife and son in the back. Phil nodded, and the young man drove them across the parking deck and into a corridor-concrete-floored and lined with lights-that angled gently downward. A cool breeze circulated from an occasional strategically placed ceiling fan. Other corridors branched off from the first, and there were arrows that pointed to Sections A, B and C.
“I’m Hospitality Sergeant Schorr.” The young man offered his hand, and Phil shook it. “Glad to have you with us. Are there any questions I can answer for you?”
“Well, I’ve taken the tour-back in April-and I know about Earth House,” Phil explained, “but I don’t think my wife and son got the full impact from the pamphlets. Elise was worried about the air circulation down here.”
Schorr laughed. “Not to worry, Mrs. Croninger. We’ve got two state-of-the-art air-filtration systems, one on-line and one backup. The system would power up within one minute of a Code Red-that’s when we’re… uh… expecting impact and we seal the vents. Right now, though, the fans are drawing in plenty of air from outside, and I can guarantee you that the air on Blue Dome Mountain is probably the cleanest you’ll ever breathe. We’ve got three living areas-Sections A, B and C-on this level, and underneath us is the Command Center and Maintenance Level. Down there, fifty feet below us, is the generator room, the weapons supply, the emergency food and water supply, the radar room and the officers’ quarters. By the way, we have a policy of storing all incoming firearms in our weapons supply. Did you happen to have any with you?”
“Uh… a.357 Magnum,” Phil said. “Under the back seat. I didn’t know about that policy.”
“Well, I’m sure you overlooked it in the contract you signed, but I think you’ll agree all firearms should be localized for the safety of Earth House residents. Right?” He smiled at Phil, and Phil nodded. “We’ll code it and give you a receipt, and when you leave us in two weeks you’ll get it back cleaned and shining.”
“What lands of weapons do you have down there?” Roland asked eagerly.
“Oh, pistols, automatic rifles, submachine guns, mortars, flamethrowers, grenades, antipersonnel and antivehicle mines, flares-about everything you can think of. And of course we keep our gas masks and antiradiation suits down there, too. When this place was put together, Colonel Macklin wanted it to be an impregnable fortress, and that’s exactly what it is.”
Colonel Macklin, Roland thought. Colonel James “Jimbo” Macklin. Roland was familiar with the name through articles in the survivalist and weaponry magazines that his father subscribed to. Colonel Macklin had a long record of success as a 105-D Thunderchief pilot over North Vietnam, had been shot down in 1971 and had been a POW until the end of the war; then he’d gone back into Vietnam and Indochina looking for MIAs, and had fought with soldiers of fortune in South Africa, Chad and Lebanon. “Will we get to meet Colonel Macklin?”
“Orientation is at 0800 hours sharp, in the Town Hall. He’ll be there.”
They saw a sign reading SECTION C with an arrow pointing to the right. Sergeant Schorr turned off the main corridor, and the tires jubbled over bits of concrete and rock that littered the floor. Water was dripping from above into a widening puddle, and it wet all of them
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