Stealthy Steps Read online

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Part 1: Into the Tunnels

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2: Stealthy Steps

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Additional Reading

  Other Books by Vikki Kestell

  A Prairie Heritage

  Girls from the Mountain

  About the Author

  Stealthy Steps

  Nanostealth | Book 1

  Vikki Kestell

  Also Available in Print and Audio Format

  Gemma Keyes is an ordinary, unexceptional young woman with a lackluster life until an overheard conversation ends her budding career—and her loyalty to an old friend puts her very existence in jeopardy. As the truth emerges, Gemma discovers—the hard way—that invisibility comes with its own set of problems.

  My name is Gemma Keyes. Other than my name, I am utterly forgettable—so those who never paid much attention to me in the first place haven’t exactly noticed that I’ve disappeared. Vanished. Oh, it’s much more complicated than it sounds. And let me tell you, the adjustment is difficult.

  I should tell you about Dr. Daniel Bickel, world-renowned nanophysicist. We used to work together, but I’ll be candid with you: He’s supposed to be dead. Well, he’s not. (Imagine my surprise.) Instead of the proverbial “six feet under,” he’s subsisting in an abandoned devolution cavern beneath the old Manzano Weapons Storage Facility on Kirtland Air Force Base here in Albuquerque.

  “I need to show you what I’m protecting here, Gemma,” he insisted.

  I stared into the clear glass case. I could hear . . . humming, clicking, buzzing. A faint haze inside the box shifted. Dissolved. Came back together. It reminded me of how mercury, when released on a plate, will flow and form new shapes. Only this, this thing was “flowing and forming” in midair.

  “Do you see them?” Dr. Bickel asked.

  “Them?” I was confused. My mouth opened to a stunned “o” as the silver haze dissolved into blue letters.

  H E L L O

  Dr. Bickel hadn’t pressed any buttons. Hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t gestured.

  He grinned. “Ah. They’ve noticed you. They know they haven’t seen you before.”

  “Well, I wish they wouldn’t notice me!” I choked on the words, my eyes fixed on the glass case.

  And I need to warn you about General Cushing. The rank and name likely conjure images of a lean but muscled old soldier, posture rigid, face cemented in unyielding lines, iron-gray hair cut high and tight.

  Let me disabuse you of that impression.

  General Imogene Cushing is short and a tiny bit plump. She wears her beautiful silvered hair in an elegant braid knotted at the nape of her neck, and she knows how to smile sweetly.

  With the deadliest of sharks.

  You wouldn’t suspect a two-star general, an Air Force O-8, of being a traitor, would you?

  Nanostealth

  Book 1: Stealthy Steps

  Book 2: Stealth Power

  Book 3: Stealth Retribution

  Stealthy Steps

  © 2015 Vikki Kestell

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  For Conrad,

  in celebration of

  our first collaboration.

  Building the science

  and technology

  backbone of this story

  was a great adventure!

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks

  to my wonderful team,

  Cheryl Adkins,

  Jan England,

  and Greg McCann.

  I am honored to work with

  such dedicated

  and talented individuals.

  I love and value each of you.

  Our gestalt is powerful!

  Thanks also to David Barr,

  Ph.D., material science,

  and to Rose May,

  M.S., nuclear physics,

  for their technical review.

  Cover by

  DogEared Design

  Foreword

  After World War II, the U.S. Armed Forces Special Weapons Command constructed a weapons storage facility in the foothills of the Manzano Mountains on the eastern edge of what is now Kirtland Air Force Base, just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. The storage facility, originally named Site Able, was renamed Manzano Base in February of 1952.

  At the onset of the Cold War, four research plants, multiple warehouses, and miles of tunnels—many large enough to drive trucks through—were hewn out of the mountain. For a time, a large part of America’s nuclear stockpile was stored in the Manzano complex. (The weapons were stored in reinforced concrete and steel bunkers apart from their nuclear warheads.)

  The facility had other intended uses: During President Eisenhower’s administration, the military built an emergency relocation center deep inside the mountain. The Manzano facility was designed to serve as a devolution command post for the president and his staff in the event of nuclear attack.

  The military built one hundred twenty-two magazine bunkers around and into the foot of the mountain to protect the complex. Forty-one of those magazines provided direct entrance to the facility via tunnels. Two electrified fences and an intrusion zone surrounded the mountain; armed forces guarded the perimeter.

  That was then. Today the facility sits mostly empty and unused. The primary tunnels (comprising a fraction of the complex) are employed to train military and Department of Energy personnel. While America’s nuclear arsenal is now stored elsewhere and the Manzano facility is essentially abandoned, the many secrets of the mountain remain largely unknown.

  To most people.

  Image seen on following page: Manzano Weapons Storage Area, Google Earth 2008. Retrieved January 27, 2015 from The Living Moon.

  Prologue

  Mid-September

  The first explosion shook us from our seats.

  Dr. Bickel and I—Gemma, his “girl Friday”—jerked our eyes in the direction of the blast. The force of the overpressure roared into the cavern, tumbling us to our knees. Dirt and pebbles cascaded from the cavern’s wide roof and filled the air with choking dust.

  The shockwave rumbled from the tunnel Dr. Bickel had termed his decoy door.

  “They’re blasting through, Gemma!” Dr. Bickel shouted.

  Dr. Bickel had warned me; he’d sensed General Cushing and her men closing in. He’d cautioned me—but I had closed my ears. I hadn’t wanted to believe him.

  And now they were coming.

  “What do you need me to do?” My ears rang from the concussion, and I screamed my question. Dr. Bickel beckoned as he ran from his small living quarters toward the laboratory—toward that all-important glass case.

  The lights circling the cavern flickered then died; when they came back on, they were dimmer under backup power. A pounding thump-thump-thump reverberated from far down the decoy tunnel. Dr. Bickel trotted ahead of me on his thin, underused legs. He was more nimble than I was; I stumbled over fist-sized bits of debris and almost fell as I followed behind. The dust-laden air choked me, and I fell into a coughing fit.

  “My la
b book, Gemma. Get it!” Dr. Bickel rasped, pointing.

  Cushing would give her eyeteeth for that book—Dr. Bickel’s scientific journal containing the irreplaceable observations and notes on his most recent work.

  I clenched my jaw: We couldn’t let it fall into her hands.

  I felt my way along the lab’s tables and swept up his current lab book and some loose papers. Dr. Bickel was in the habit of typing up his notes every evening and uploading them to an encrypted remote server somewhere in the cloud, but his lab book was in his own writing. It was proof positive of his accomplishments.

  A more valuable proof of his genius was found in the glass case ahead of us—the tall, transparent case in the far corner of the lab. Cushing wanted the contents of that case. She would stop at nothing to get what she desired.

  Dr. Bickel had emphasized how crucial it was to save them from Cushing and others who would misuse them—use them, perhaps, against America and her citizens.

  Another explosion shook the cavern. More dirt silted from the ceiling. I spat grit from my mouth as the pounding resumed.

  “It will take time for Cushing’s people to overcome my delaying devices,” Dr. Bickel called over his shoulder. He reached the glass case and fumbled in a cabinet beneath it, pulling out two hefty carryalls.

  I knew what the bags were for. He had described them to me: luggage he had specially constructed to transport them. In fact, Dr. Bickel had brought the first of them here in these two carryalls.

  Did he intend to put all of them into the two bags? I couldn’t imagine how he would manage it.

  I waited not far from him, shivering, hugging his lab book to my chest, watching him connect white, flexible tubing—the sort I’ve seen on dryer vents only not as wide—to a rigid port in the first bag’s side.

  “Don’t worry, dear girl. They will flow into the carryalls,” Dr. Bickel shouted. Amidst the chaos, he had still sensed my question before I had asked it.

  He had just clamped the tube onto the second carryall’s port when yet another blast rumbled into the cavern. It knocked me backwards and I clutched at my ears. For all practical purposes I was temporarily deaf.

  Chunks of rock fell and demolished precious equipment. A stone bounced off my head; another one grazed me. I looked stupidly at the blood oozing from a scrape on my arm.

  Dr. Bickel grabbed the edge of the nearest lab table and pulled himself to his feet. He pivoted as though listening, dropped the tubing, and ran toward the front of the lab. There he would have an unobstructed view of the tunnel where it emptied into the cavern.

  I shook myself and climbed back to my feet, but I was dazed—stunned by the glancing blow to my head. Dr. Bickel staggered back toward me, toward the case. He gestured. I couldn’t hear what he shouted. His mouth moved, but I heard nothing. Anxiety etched his face.

  My ears popped and cleared right then and I heard him shout, “—coming through, Gemma! Soldiers! Lots of them! My tactics didn’t slow them down long enough! I don’t have enough time!”

  I nodded but stood rooted, unsure of what to do.

  “Go, Gemma! Go! Get out now!” As he reached me, he gave me a little shove in the right direction.

  I nodded again. Still my body would not move—it felt as though my brain’s commands were disconnected from my limbs. Instead, I watched Dr. Bickel do something quite curious. He yanked another object from the cabinet below the glass case. When he stood up he wielded an aluminum baseball bat.

  I blinked. What?

  The case was strong; Dr. Bickel had designed it himself. Did he really think to shatter the glass? Obviously, Dr. Bickel had stored the bat under the case on purpose—had he foreseen this day? This necessity? And why? Did he intend to just release them?

  With more strength than I had credited to my sedentary friend, Dr. Bickel swung the bat toward the glass. He connected with his target—not the surface of the glass, but rather a corner of the case. The bat rebounded.

  I stared into the case. I could see them—the faint haze of their trillions bunched and crowded into the corner farthest from the blow Dr. Bickel had delivered. The cloud shimmered, alternating from silver to crimson. Their deepening colors conveyed a frantic quality—except they were not capable of feelings, of emotion.

  Shouts echoed from far down the decoy tunnel. The intruders were through! They would be in the cavern itself in moments. Fear jarred me from my daze.

  “Dr. Bickel! Hurry!”

  He swung the bat once more, and the case’s corner seam split apart. Instantly the air filled with an unnatural hum.

  “Hide!” Dr. Bickel shouted. Red-faced, he waved his arms in the air. “Nano! Hide!”

  Hide? He had trained them to that one-word command—but where could they possibly hide here? They needed continuous power and they could propel themselves only short distances.

  Yet I saw the swarm as it—as they—left the case. They poured like vapor from the wide-open seam. Once clear of the glass, they gathered themselves into a dense ball, packed themselves together closer and tighter than I thought possible—and shot into the air. The silver-blue haze of the nanocloud shimmered ever so slightly—and vanished.

  The tramp of boots and shouted orders drew closer.

  “Thank God,” Dr. Bickel said aloud. He whirled around—and stopped short when he saw me.

  “No! What are you still doing here, Gemma? I told you to go!” His mouth twisted in fear, but not for himself. He shoved me toward the cavern’s back wall, toward my exit.

  “Go! Before they see you, Gemma!”

  I realized then that the intruders probably knew nothing of my involvement with Dr. Bickel—likely did not know of my presence in the lab today! Could I get to the back wall before the soldiers spotted me? Their shouts grew nearer.

  “Hide!” Dr. Bickel shrieked. “Hide, Gemma!” His eyes compelled me to go.

  I tore my gaze from his dear face and ran, expecting him to follow.

  If we can reach the back wall of the cavern without being intercepted, we will be safe! I told myself. I knew where to slip between the close-set rock walls. I knew the way out, and so did Dr. Bickel. The intruders didn’t.

  Soldiers would round the lab tables any moment. Rubble covered the floor of the cavern along our path toward the exit. If either Dr. Bickel or I stumbled or put a foot wrong and went down? I kept my eyes on the cavern’s rock floor so as not to trip or stumble, but I glanced up once to pick out the little landmarks I used to find the narrow, overlapping cleft by which I exited the cavern. I swerved left to correct my course and sprinted straight toward the cleft and the tunnel that led away from the lab.

  So close!

  I heard Dr. Bickel shout again, from a distance. “Hide! Hide, Gemma!”

  Why isn’t he right behind me? I slowed and started to turn.

  Gunfire erupted in the cavern. So much gunfire! Rock and stone amplified the harsh, rapid pops.

  Why are they shooting? Why would they? No one is shooting at them! Why—

  Something hard slammed into me, struck me between the shoulder blades, pierced my back. The blow drove the air from my lungs and flung me onto my belly. My hands and face skidded in the debris covering the floor. I tasted blood.

  I’ve been shot!

  I started to rise, but a hot, numbing weight pulled me down. I crumpled to the rock-strewn ground. It hurt! Oh, it hurt! Every part of my body burned! My skin stung as though stabbed by countless fiery needles.

  I could not inhale, could not seem to catch my breath. I was drowning in the fluid that clogged my nostrils and mouth and surged down my throat. I gagged and could not dislodge the flood that gushed into every pore, every opening. Every part of me.

  Consciousness was slipping away. From a far distance I heard more gunfire—rapid and fierce—followed by a man’s scream of pain.

  Dr. Bickel! No! Oh, no!

  I protested the horror of my friend’s death with my body’s last bit of air. Sight and sound faded.

  Dr. Bic
kel . . .

  WHY IS MY HEAD POUNDING so?

  My entire body ached like someone had worked it over. With a hammer. Every inch of my skin radioed distress to my brain. My muscles and joints throbbed; I pulsed with fever.

  Why?

  I lay on my side. Sort of. My legs, cramps shooting through them, contracted toward my chest. My arms clutched my middle.

  I struggled to recall where I was, yet my thinking was soupy, disjointed, as though the synapses refused to fire in the right order. I couldn’t quite pry my eyelids open.

  My eyes hurt. I was relieved to frame a complete, coherent thought.

  I’m cold, too. I shivered and shook. Was I in a car accident? Am I in a hospital? Or am I home sick in bed? Why am I so cold?

  A sharp, bothersome buzzing somewhere behind me did nothing to relieve my confusion and mounting anxiety. My right index finger—the only part of my body that seemed willing to respond to my commands—tapped my mattress.

  Wait—what?

  Again, tentatively, I tapped and then scratched at my mattress.

  It was not my mattress.

  I was not at home in my bed or lying in a hospital. I was lying in dirt. And I didn’t know why or where. My thoughts skittered from one plausible scenario to another but nothing seemed to fit or fill the gaping void in my memory. Panic bubbled up, got stuck under my rib cage. And squeezed.

  Stay calm, Gemma. Just. Stay. Calm.

  The intense, allover pain threatened to splinter my self-control. I scrabbled to hold in the shrieks building in my chest.

  Take slow breaths. Slow. In slow. Out slow. In. Out. Slow.

  The buzzing-chittering somewhere behind me seemed to be coming closer. And the closer the worrisome buzzing, the more excruciating grew the “whanging” in my head.

  I gasped and bit my lip; nothing I’d ever experienced compared to this agony. Or this anxiety.

  Adrenaline pumped through my body and, in a rush, took effect: I managed to sit up, groaning as I did. My eyes popped open. They darted about, hoping to spy something familiar. Anything.

  It was night and I was outside. Where?

  I turned my gaze upward and squinted. The sky was the deepest, inkiest blue-black imaginable. Stars speckled the heavens, but no moon lit the sky. Off in the distance the lights of houses winked through the dark. The houses were not close, but their presence was comforting nonetheless.