“We’re going to Camp Hero today,” Grandpa answers. I stare down at my plate. There’s a heavy silence, and I know my parents are exchanging a look.
“Hmmm.” Mom stands up and starts carrying the dishes over to the sink. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do today, Lydia?”
I glance at my parents. They’re both waiting for my reaction. I know they think my grandfather is slightly unhinged—and sometimes I think the same thing. I also know that they’re unwilling to play along and often wonder why I am. But they’ve never stood in the way of me making my own choices about anything, and that’s one of the things I love the most about them.
My mom is giving me an out with her question. I could say no, call Hannah, and go hang out at the beach all day. But then I’d be disappointing my grandfather, and I can’t bear to do that.
I turn to smile at him. “It’s exactly what I want to do today.”
CHAPTER 3
We drive down the hill near our house, past the red-and-white brick elementary school, around the pond in the middle of town, through the short downtown strip, and out onto the highway. I can see the beach and the water beyond the dunes. There are people walking the shore even though the air is thick and foggy. The weather reminds me of the first day I went to Camp Hero: the dark clouds forming circles above the water, the waves rough against the rocks.
“I saw some suspicious metal tubs that I want to check out near the north side. I want to see if they’re still there.” I’m driving Grandpa’s old Honda while he sits in the passenger seat consulting a local map and his father’s journal.
We pass the dunes and enter a thicker section of the forest. The low, gnarled branches of the trees look like something out of a dark fairy tale. They reach and stretch their tangled arms out to us as we pass.
“Listen to this.” Grandpa holds up the journal and peers at it through the bottom half of his glasses. “‘May eighteenth, nineteen forty-four. As a soldier it is not my job to question why I’m ordered to do something. I’ve made a promise to serve my country, in any way I can, no matter the outcome. This new project is an order, and I have yet to decide if it’s a moral one. I must remember that it’s not my duty to judge it, but my duty to complete the task that is asked of me.’ And above that he scribbled Tesla’s name in the margins. It must be connected to the Montauk Project. Why else would he keep mentioning Nikola Tesla?”
“I don’t know, Grandpa.”
“It has to be significant.” He grips the leather so hard his knuckles turn white. “The answers are out there. I just know it.”
We are nearing the end of Long Island, and when we turn that final corner, the lighthouse looms white and red and quiet in the early afternoon. To the right is the sign for Camp Hero State Park.
This part of Montauk has become a tourist attraction. But during World War II, the army established Camp Hero and built lookout towers, barracks, a power plant, and huge guns to protect shipping lanes. All the buildings were designed to resemble a small fishing village, so that from the air the enemy saw white clapboard, a fake church, and what looked like scattered beach houses.
The history of the base is everywhere, but it’s the rumors about the Montauk Project that give the camp its mysterious feeling, as though something dark and secret is always hiding out there in the trees. I like to think I’m immune to this feeling, though my mad dash through the woods last night might suggest otherwise. Nerves, I tell myself, as we drive straight through the gates until we reach a dirt parking lot that looks out over the bluffs. Grandpa quickly gets out of the car, waiting impatiently as I grab a sweater out of the backseat. I step out and pause to look down at the cliffs in front of us. The fog is thick, hiding the blue of the ocean, but I know it stretches in an endless arc, miles and miles of water.
I can hear waves crashing against the rocks below. It reminds me of a Walt Whitman poem I recently read in English class:
From Montauk Point
I stand as on some mighty eagle’s beak,
Eastward the sea absorbing, viewing, (nothing but sea and sky,)
The tossing waves, the foam, the ships in the distance,
The wild unrest, the snowy, curling caps—that inbound urge and urge of waves,
Seeking the shores forever.
That line, seeking the shores forever, always makes me think of my grandfather. Though he looks and looks, he never seems to find his shore, his peace.
Behind me I hear him call out. He’s standing near the trail that leads into the forest. I turn away from the ocean and trudge slowly up the dirt path until I reach his side. The radar tower hovers over our heads, the wire metal antenna partially hidden in the fog. Together we walk into the woods.
By four o’clock I am tired, sweaty, and sick of looking at trees. How my grandfather, a man in his midseventies, still has so much energy is a complete mystery. The only mystery in Camp Hero, as far as I’m concerned. Exhausted, I slump against a nearby picnic table.
Grandpa consults some papers he brought along. They are covered in black lines and rough notes: Bunker. West forest near paved road. Possible entrance to Lab B. I sigh and close my eyes. The clouds from earlier have turned into a light drizzle that makes the ground spongy and damp, the wet leaves glistening and heavy. The fog has lifted, but mist still curves
