Page 64 of Dead Mountain

“It’s legendary. Most everyone in New Mexico knows the story.”

“Is it still in use?”

Abecassis laughed. “A classic case of anachronistic military overspending—but you didn’t hear that from me. Less than ten years after its completion, when the Russians unleashed the Tsar Bomba, they realized the bunker couldn’t survive an H-bomb strike of that size, so they abandoned it.”

“So where is this complex? In the mountains?”

“The bunker was built into the mountains. The entrance was at the base of the foothills and ran in quite a ways.”

“Any other entrances?”

“You mean, like a back door on a submarine?” Abecassis laughed again. “No, just the one.”

“What about the current storage area for nukes?”

“The exact location is classified, but it’s not in the mountains—miles away, in fact.”

Corrie found this fascinating, but she noted with impatience that none of it furthered their investigation. “Another question, if you don’t mind: the nine hikers made a beeline to the north after fleeing their tent—in the direction of the Kirtland property. Is there anything or any place in the mountainous part of Kirtland they might have been heading for?”

Abecassis, slewing the Jeep around a particularly sharp hairpin turn, didn’t answer immediately. They had been climbing steadily and were now among ponderosa pines clinging to steep hillsides.

“When did they shut down the Manzano storage bunkers?”

“Early nineties. Like I said, the presidential bunker was closed off decades earlier, but the weapons bunkers were used until, I think, June of 1992. That’s when they deactivated the perimeter alarms, the nukes were moved to the new location, and the entire complex was permanently mothballed and sealed.”

“You told me that those bunkers were common knowledge around here. Do you think there’s any chance the hikers could have been headed toward that complex, for shelter?”

“Not a chance in hell. The only entrance is on the flats. Where the hikers were, up here somewhere in the high country—you simply can’t get down to the flats. Cliffs, canyons, ravines . . . it’s impossible.”

The Jeep bumped over a particularly large pothole, sending everyone bouncing.

“Sorry about that,” said Abecassis, slowing down yet again. “We’re almost at the fence line.”

Now patches of snow could be seen among a deep forest of fir trees. A moment later, a double chain-link fence appeared on their right, tarnished but still in good condition, topped with concertina wire.

The road turned to parallel the perimeter fence. They continued on, driving alongside as the fence rose up a gradual ridgeline.

“Do any sensors or alarms remain on this section of the fence?” Corrie asked.

“Not since the bunker was mothballed. We have hundreds of miles of fence. The security perimeters around weapons storage are, of course, much tighter and much, much more stringent.”

“If someone could cut through the fence, would you know?” asked Sharp, speaking for the first time since the tour began.

“Yes. There aren’t any alarms, but we’d find out. We patrol this road weekly.”

“Was there any evidence, fifteen years ago, of anyone trying to break in?” he asked. “Like a hole cut in the fence that had to be repaired?”

“I’d be glad to check our security records. Anything like that would have been noted. But nobody’s likely to have broken in around this section of the fence—not unless they had wings. That area eastward is called the Knot. It’s awful country, full of knobs, sharp peaks, and ravines so deep no light ever touches them.” The colonel glanced at Corrie. “How far do you want to go along the fence?”

“To the eastern corner?”

“Of course.”

The snow got a little deeper, but it had been packed down by the weekly patrol. The long ridgeline finally topped out on a summit, and Abecassis stopped the Jeep. “We’re at the high point—Lagarto Peak. Let’s get out and stretch our legs.”

The air was fresh and cold, and smelled of snow, and the view was tremendous. The fence line ran across the top of the peak and down again. The slope on the Kirtland side was gentle, but on the side called the Knot lay a brutal, stony landscape that quickly ended in a steep decline. O’Hara was right; hiker number nine would never have been able to climb that slope at night in winter. And the fence here was just as tarnished and old-looking as elsewhere—no sign of an old repair or hole being cut.

Number nine definitely didn’t enter Kirtland at this point—or any other, it seemed. A dead end.

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