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  “Sir, please get out of the Humvee.”

  “You can't leave me in the middle of the desert. It's insane.”

  The driver drew his pistol.

  “Jesus!”

  “These are my orders, sir. If you don't get out of the Humvee, I've been instructed to shoot you in the leg and drag you out. One...”

  “I don't believe this.”

  “Two...”

  “This is murder. You're murdering me here.”

  “Three.”

  The driver cocked the gun and aimed it at Andy's leg. Andy threw up his hands. “Fine! I'm out!”

  Andy stepped out of the Humvee. He could feel the heat of the sand through the soles of his shoes.

  The driver holstered his weapon, hit the gas, and swung the Humvee around. It sped off in the direction it had come. Andy watched until it shrank down to nothing.

  He turned in a complete circle, feeling the knot growing in his belly. The only thing around him was scrub brush and cacti.

  “This is not happening.”

  Andy searched the sky for any helicopters that might be flying in to pick him up. The sky was empty, except for a fat desert sun that hurt his eyes. Andy couldn’t be sure, but the air seemed to be getting hotter. By noon it would be scorching.

  He looked at his watch and wondered how long he could go without water. The very idea of it made his tongue feel thick. A day, maybe two at most. It would take at least two days to walk back to the airport. He decided to follow the truck tracks.

  “Andrew Dennison?”

  Andy spun around, startled. Standing twenty yards away was a man. He wore loose fitting jeans and a blue polo shirt, and he approached Andy in an unhurried gait. As the figure came into sharper focus, Andy noticed several things at once. The man was old, maybe seventy, with age spots dotting his bald dome and deep wrinkles set in a square face. But he carried himself like a much younger man, and though his broad shoulders were stooped with age, he projected an apparent strength. Military, Andy guessed, and upper echelon as well.

  Andy walked to meet the figure, trying not to appear surprised that he'd just materialized out of nowhere. The thoughts of vultures and thirst were replaced by several dozen questions.

  “I'm General Regis Murdoch. Call me Race. Welcome to Project Samhain.”

  Race offered a thick and hairy hand, which Andy nervously shook. It felt like shaking a two-by-four.

  “General Race, I appreciate the welcome, but I think I've been left out of the loop. I don't know...”

  “All in good time. The President wants to fill you in, and you're to meet the group.”

  “Where?” Andy asked, looking around.

  The General beamed. “Almost a hundred years old, and still the best hidden secret in the United States. Right this way.”

  Andy followed Race up to a pile of rocks next to a bush. Close inspection revealed that they'd been glued, or maybe soldered, to a large metal plate which spun on a hinge. The plate swivelled open, revealing a murky stairwell leading into the earth.

  “Cutting edge stuff in 1906, now kind of dated.” Race smiled. “But sometimes the old tricks are still the best.”

  Race prompted Andy down the sandy iron staircase and followed after closing the lid above them. The walls were concrete, old and crumbling. Light came from bare bulbs hanging overhead every fifteen steps.

  Only a few hours ago I was asleep in my bed, Andy thought.

  “Don't worry,” Race said. “It gets better.”

  After almost two hundred steps down they came to a large metal door with a wheel in the center, like a submarine hatch. Race stopped in front of the door and cleared his throat. He leaned closer to Andy, locking eyes with him.

  “Three hundred million Americans have lived during the last century, and you are only the forty-third to ever enter this compound. During your time here and for the rest of your life afterwards, you're going to be sworn to absolute secrecy. Failure to keep this secret will lead to your trial and inevitable execution for treason.”

  “Execution,” Andy repeated.

  “The Rosenbergs were numbers twenty-two and twenty-three. You didn't buy that crap about selling nuclear secrets, did you?”

  Andy blinked. “I'm in an episode of the X-files.”

  “That old TV show? They wish they had what we do.”

  Race opened the door and bade Andy to enter. They'd stepped into a modern hospital. Or at least, that's what it looked like. Everything was white, from the tiled floors and painted walls to the fluorescent lights recessed into the ceiling. A disinfectant smell wafted through the air, cooled by air conditioning. They walked down a hallway, the clicking of Andy's expensive shoes amplified to an almost comic echo. It could have been a hundred other buildings Andy had been in before, except this one was several hundred feet underground and harbored some kind of government secret.

  Andy asked, “This was built in 1906?”

  “Well, it's been improved upon as the years have gone by. Didn't get fluorescent lights till 1938. In '49 we added the Orange Arm and the Purple Arm. We're always replacing, updating. Just got a Jacuzzi in '99, but it's on the fritz.”

  “How big is this place?”

  “About 75,000 square feet. Took two years to dig it all out. God gets most of the credit, though. Most of this space is a series of natural caves. Not nearly the size of the Carlsbad Caverns two hundred miles to the east, but enough for our purpose.”

  “Speaking of purpose...”

  “We're getting to that.”

  The hallway curved gradually to the right and Andy noted that the doors were all numbered in yellow paint with the word YELLOW stenciled above them. Andy guessed correctly that they were in the Yellow Arm of the complex, and was happy that at least one thing made sense.

  “What's that smell?” Andy asked, noting that the pleasant scent of lemon and pine had been overtaken by a distinct farm-like odor.

  “The sheep, over in Orange 12. They just came in last week, and they stink like, well, sheep. We think we can solve the problem with Hepa filters, but it will take some time.”

  “Sheep,” Andy said. He wondered, idly, if he'd been brought here to interpret their bleating.

  The hallway they were taking ended at a doorway, and Race ushered Andy through it and into a large round room that had six doors along its walls. Each door was a different color.

  “Center of the complex. The head of the Octopus, so to speak. I believe you've got a call waiting for you.”

  In the middle of the room was a large round table, circled with leather executive-type office chairs. Computer monitors, electronic gizmos, and a mess of cords and papers haphazardly covered the table top as if they'd been dropped there from a great height.

  Race sat Andy down in front of a screen and tapped a few commands on a keyboard. The President's head and shoulders appeared on the flat-screen monitor, and he nodded at Andy as if they were in the same room.

  “Video phone, got it in '04.” Race winked.

  “Mr. Dennison, thank you for coming. You've done your country a great service.”

  The President looked and sounded like he always did, fit, commanding, and sincere. Obviously he'd had a chance to sleep.

  “Where do I talk?” Andy asked Race.

  “Right at the screen. There's a mike and a camera housed in the monitor.”

  Andy leaned forward.

  “Mr. President, I'd really like to know what's going on and what I'm supposed to be doing here.”

  “You were chosen, Andy, because you met all of the criteria on a very long list. We need a translator, one with experience in ancient languages. You've always had a gift for language. My sources say you were fluent in Spanish by age three, and by six years old you could also speak French, German, and some Russian. In grade school you were studying the eastern tongues, and you could speak Chinese by junior high.”

  Only Mandarin, Andy thought. He couldn't speak Cantonese until a few years later.

  �
�You graduated high school in three years and were accepted to Harvard on scholarship. You spent four years at Harvard, and wrote and published your thesis on giving enunciation to cuneiform, at age nineteen.

  “When you left school in 1986 you lived on money left to you by your parents, who died in a fire three years before. After the money ran out you got a job at the United Nations in New York. You were there less than a year before being fired. During a Middle East peace talk you insulted the Iraqi ambassador.”

  “He was a pervert who liked little girls.”

  “Iraq was our ally at the time.”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  The President held up a hand, as he was so accustomed to doing with reporters.

  “I'm not sitting in a seat of judgment, Andy. But you're entitled to know why you were chosen. After the UN fired you, you started your own freelance translation service, WTS. You've been making an average living, one that allows you to be your own boss. But business has been slow lately, I assume because of the Internet.”

  Andy frowned. In the beginning, the World Wide Web had opened up a wealth of information for a translator, giving him instant access to the greatest libraries in the world. But, of course, it gave everyone else access to those libraries too. Along with computer programs that could translate both the written and the spoken word.

  “So you know I'm good at my job, and you know I could use the money.”

  “More than that, Andy. You're single, and you aren't currently seeing anyone. You don't have any relatives. Business is going poorly and you're behind on your Visa and your Discover Card payments, and you've just gotten your second warning from the electric company. Your unique mind, so active and curious years ago, hasn't had a challenge since college.

  “You didn't talk to the media after the incident at the UN, even though reporters offered you money for the story. That's important, because it shows you can keep your mouth shut. In short, by bringing you in on this project, you don't have anything to lose, but everything to gain.”

  “Why aren't I comforted that the government knows so much about me?”

  “Not the government, Andy. Me. No one else in Washington is aware of you, or of Project Samhain. Only the incumbent President knows what goes on there in New Mexico. It was passed on to me by my predecessor, and I'll pass it on to my successor when I leave office. This is the way it's been since President Theodore Roosevelt commissioned construction of this facility in 1906.”

  Andy didn’t like this at all. His curiosity was being overtaken by a creepy feeling.

  “This is all very interesting, but I don’t think I’m your man.”

  “I also know about Myra Thackett and Chris Simmons.”

  Andy’s mouth became a thin line. Thackett and Simmons were two fictitious employees that Andy pretended to have under salary at WTS. Having phantom people on the payroll reduced income tax, and was the only way he’d been able to keep his business afloat.

  “So this is a tax thing after all.”

  “Again, only I know about it Andy. Not the IRS. Not the FBI. Just me. And I can promise you that Ms. Thackett and Mr. Simmons will never come back to haunt you if you help us here.”

  “What exactly,” Andy chose his words carefully, “do you want from me?”

  “First you must swear, as a citizen of the United States, to never divulge anything you see, hear, or learn at Project Samhain, under penalty of execution. Not to a friend. Not even to a wife. My own wife doesn't even know about this.”

  Not seeing an alternative, Andy held up his right hand, as if he were testifying in court.

  “Fine. I swear.”

  “General Murdoch will provide the details, he knows them better than I. Suffice to say, this may be the single most important project this country, maybe even the world, has ever been involved with. I wish you luck, and God bless.”

  The screen went blank.

  “It's aliens, isn't it?” Andy turned to Race. “You've got aliens here.”

  “Well, no. But back in '47 we had a hermit who lived in the mountains, he found our secret entrance and got himself a good look inside. Before we could shut him up he was blabbing to everyone within earshot. So we faked a UFO landing two hundred miles away in Roswell to divert attention.”

  Andy rubbed his temples.

  “You want some aspirin?” Race asked. “Or breakfast, maybe?”

  “What I want, after swearing under the penalty of execution, is to know what the hell I'm doing here.”

  “They say an image is worth a thousand words. Follow me.”

  Race headed to the Red Door and Andy loped behind. The Red Arm hallway looked exactly like the Yellow Arm; white and sterile with numbered doors, this time with the word RED stenciled on them. But after a few dozen yards Andy noted a big difference. Race had to stop at a barrier that blocked the hallway. It resembled a prison door, with thick vertical steel bars set in a heavy frame.

  “Titanium,” Race said as he pressed some numbers on a keypad embedded in the wall. “They could stop a charging rhino.”

  There was a beep and a metallic sound as the door unlocked. The door swung inward, and Race held it open for Andy, then closed it behind him with loud clang. It made Andy feel trapped. They came up on another set of bars fifty yards further up.

  “Why two sets?” Andy asked. “You have a rhino problem here?”

  “Well, it's got horns, that's for sure.”

  Race opened the second gate and the Red Arm came to an abrupt end at doors Red 13 and Red 14.

  “He was found in Panama in 1906, by a team digging the canal,” Race said. “For the past hundred years he's been in some kind of deep sleep, like a coma. Up until last week. Last week he woke up.”

  “He?”

  “We call him Bub. He's trying to communicate, but we don't know what he's saying.”

  Andy's apprehension increased with every breath. He had an irrational urge to turn around and run. Or maybe it wasn't so irrational.

  “Is Bub human?” Andy asked.

  “Nope,” Race grinned. The General was clearly enjoying himself. Didn't have visitors too often, Andy guessed.

  “So what is he?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Race opened door Red 14, and Andy almost gagged on the animal stench. This wasn't a farm smell. This was a musky, sickly, sweet and sour, big carnivore smell.

  Forcing himself to move, Andy took two steps into the room. It was large, the size of a gymnasium, the front half filled with medical equipment. The back half had been partitioned off with a massive translucent barrier, glass or plastic. Behind the glass was...

  “Jesus Christ,” Andy said.

  Andy’s mind couldn’t process what he was seeing. The teeth. The eyes. The claws.

  This thing wasn’t supposed to exist in real life.

  “Biix a beel,” Bub said.

  Andy flew past Race, heading for the hallway.

  “I promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Mr. Dennison...”

  Andy met up with the titanium bars and used some of his favorite curses from several different languages. His palms were soaked with sweat, and he’d begun to hyperventilate.

  Race caught up, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “I apologize for not preparing you, but I'm an old man with so little pleasure in my life, and it's such a hoot watching people see Bub for the first time.”

  Andy braced the older man.

  “Bub. Beelzebub. You've got Satan in there.”

  “Possibly. Father Thrist thinks it's a lower level demon like Moloch or Rahab, but Rabbi Shotzen concedes it may be Mastema.”

  “I'd like to leave,” Andy said, attempting to sound calm. “Right now.”

  “Don't worry. He's not violent. I've even been in the dwelling with him. He's just scary looking, is all. And that Plexiglas barrier is rated to eight tons. It's as safe as visiting the monkey house at the zoo.”

  Andy tried to find the words.
>
  “You're a lunatic,” he decided.

  “Look, Andy, I've been watching after Bub for over forty years. We've had the best of the best in the world here—doctors, scientists, holy men, you name it. We've found out so much, but the rest is just theory. Bub's awake now, and trying to communicate. You're the key to that. Don't you see how important this is?”

  “I'm...” Andy began, searching his mind for a way to put it.

  Race finished the thought for him. “Afraid. Of course you're afraid. Any damn fool would be, seeing Bub. We've been taught to fear him since we were born. But if I can paraphrase Samuel Butler, we don't know the Devil's side of the story, because God wrote all the books. Just think about what we can learn here.”

  “You're military,” Andy accused. “I'm sure the weapons implications of controlling the Prince of Darkness aren't lost on you.”

  Race lost his friendly demeanor, his eyes narrowing.

  “We have an opportunity here, Mr. Dennison. An opportunity that we haven't had since Christ walked the earth. In that room is a legendary creature, and the things that he could teach us about the world, the universe, and creation itself staggers the imagination. You've been chosen to help us, to work with our team in getting some answers. Many would kill for the chance.”

  Andy folded his arms. “You expect me to believe not only that the devil is harmless and just wants to have a chat, but that the biggest government conspiracy in the history of the world has only good intentions?”

  Race's face remained impassive for a few seconds longer, and then he broke out laughing.

  “Damn, that does sound hard to swallow, don't it?”

  Andy couldn't help but warm a bit at the man's attitude. “General Murdoch...”

  “Race. Call me Race. And I understand. I've been part of the Project so long the whole thing is the norm to me. You need to eat, rest, think about things. We'll grab some food and I'll show you your room.”

  “And if I want to leave?”

  “This isn't a prison, son. I'm sure you weren't the only guy on the President's list. You're free to go whenever you please, so long as you never mention this to anyone.”

  Andy took a deep, calming breath and the effects of the adrenaline in his system began to wear off. Race opened the gate and they began their trek back down the hallway.