It’s only about a half hour from Paterson to Morristown.
That’s mainly because the drive is on Route 80, the only highway in America that never, ever seems to have any traffic on it. I don’t know why that is, but whoever planned and designed Route 80 should be anointed as the official National Emperor of Highways.
Within that half hour you can see the state take on a completely different character. People generally don’t think of New Jersey as particularly beautiful, but those people might change their minds if they drove to the northwest portions of the state.
Of course, Emmit and I weren’t on a sightseeing trip. It was in the northwest, Morris, Warren, and Sussex counties, that the satellite company reported weather interruptions of service that matched what Bryan had reported.
We had called ahead and set up a meeting with Captain Willis Granderson of the Morristown police. We picked Captain Granderson because he had served on the force the longest, thirty-seven years. It was important that we talk to someone who had a history in the area.
Granderson was an immediately likable guy, and one who seemed genuinely glad to have company. I got the feeling that he was sort of out of the law enforcement loop, and was just putting in the time until retirement. But based on the interactions he had with fellow officers on the way back to his office, it seemed he was treated with deference and respect.
After making sure we had cold sodas, Granderson asked us what he could do for us.
“We want to talk about bomb shelters,” I said.
“Just goes to show if you hang around long enough … in thirty-seven years, nobody’s ever asked me about bomb shelters.”
I smiled. “Well, you can check it off your list. Are you aware of any in this area?”
“Course I am. Why do you want to know?”
“We have reason to believe that someone is being held against their will in this part of the state. We further believe that they are underground, and cannot hear outside noise, nor themselves be heard outside the room. It’s not necessarily a bomb shelter, but it’s a good guess.”
He nodded. “Sounds right. The good news is that we do have bomb shelters in this area; the bad news is that there’s a whole shitload of them.”
“Why so many?” Emmit asked.
“Because in the sixties, there were a bunch of missiles here, sitting in silos, pointed at the dirty Commies. So people figured that if the other side shot first, they’d try and hit the missiles before they got in the air. So here is one of the places the Russians were aiming first.”
“So people built the shelters to protect themselves from a direct hit,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah. Like if I shot a bazooka at you, and you protected yourself by wearing a heavy sweater.”
“They weren’t safe?” I asked.
“They were safe if there was a tornado, or a hurricane. But a nuclear missile landing nearby? No way. And you know what? If you were sitting under a nuclear attack, you’d never want to come up for air, because you’d be sucking poison. If you ask me, instant incineration is the way to go.”
“Have you ever been in one of the shelters?”
“Are you kidding? We had one under our house; my father built it himself. I took girls down there until I was twenty-two. I wish I lived there now.” He smiled at the recollection.
“Is it possible that there is one with satellite television hooked up?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Have the satellite on the house, or a nearby tree, and run the line down to the shelter. No problem. It could even be in a silo.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people bought old silos, for beans, once the missiles were taken out. I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard they turned them into like underground apartments.” He laughed. “I even heard some people built homes next to them, and use the silos as guesthouses.” He laughed again. “I got some family I’d like to put underground when they visit.”
“Is there a map of where the shelters are?”
“No, not that I know of. I’m sure some of them would be registered in town halls, or something. You know, if people had to get permits to build them. But I’m sure most of them just went ahead and did it.”
“What about the silos? Is there a map of where they would be?”
Another shrug. “Must be. The Defense Department keeps records of everything.”
I turned to Emmit. “Let’s make sure we get that.”
Emmit wrote it down, which meant I could forget it. Once Emmit wrote something down, it happened.
“I can tell you where a couple of them are, if you want to see them,” Granderson said.
“How far from here?” Emmit asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
Granderson told us where they were, and how to get there. We thanked him and left.
True to his word, we were there in twenty minutes, an old sign directing us off the road to a US Military Installation, apparently unnamed. We drove on a dirt road towards it, and in less than five minutes we were there. It was a group of small buildings, maybe barracks, and six small towers.
We parked near one of the buildings, and walked towards the towers. Everything was old and dusty, metal was rusted … it sure didn’t feel like a place that once contained enough power to wipe out a good part of the world.
Emmit and I walked towards one of the towers, and saw what used to be the hole in the ground. It was very, very large, maybe thirty feet across, and it was covered by what could best be called an enormous concrete manhole cover.
There were still warning signs, some alerting to the dangers of radiation. It didn’t seem like a current worry, since the area hadn’t been roped off, but I did feel a flash of concern.
“You think this stuff could still be radioactive?” Emmit asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” I said. “You’ve been impotent since you got out of the car.”
He laughed, but the laugh was cut short by the bullet smashing into him. He fell backwards, and I dove on top of him, rolling us over to some level of protection, behind the tower.
“Emmit, you OK?”
He didn’t answer me, but his eyes were open, and the bleeding was coming from just below his shoulder. I balled up his shirt and pressed down on the wound with one hand, as I tried to peer out to where the attack had come from. I had my gun out in the other hand, but I had no target to shoot at.
Another round of weapons fire shattered the quiet, and dirt and concrete kicked out from all around us. We were in a completely untenable position; any effort to find the person shooting at us would leave me totally vulnerable.
But I had to do something, because Emmit could well have been dying. And the way things were setting up, I was going to join him.
I started to work my way around the tower, but more shots cut me off. Then I heard a sound; it was a human sound, maybe a small shout of surprise. Or pain. Or both.
I waited sixty seconds, which in that situation was an eternity. Then I started to make my way around again, bracing myself for more gunfire.
But there was only silence.
So I kept going, gun at the ready, prepared to shoot at anything I saw. And what I saw was a man, standing off in the distance near a building, looking down.
I raised my gun, but I didn’t shoot, because the man was Chris Gallagher. And he was looking down at a body.
