Page 90 of Dead Mountain

“I’ve got maps on my phone.”

“Jesus. What about a snowmobile? Do you even know how to drive a snowmobile?”

“No.”

“So you’re screwed before you start—in more ways than I can count. Listen: I’m experienced in winter terrain. I have maps, I have snowshoes, I have the gear, and I have a snowmobile. Let’s talk like sane people for a minute. Can you get a Jeep out of the FBI motor pool? I mean, one equipped for all-terrain travel? One that can haul?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Look. I’m at the Torrance County courthouse. I can be there in an hour. We can download the maps, look for this flat area you’re talking about. Through my account at the Institute, I’ve got access to proprietary lidar terrain maps that might be useful. If we find what you’re looking for, we can go up there tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute. Are you asking to come along?”

“I’m not asking. I’m the only chance you have of finding anything.”

Corrie’s tone changed to one of concern. “Hold on. This is dangerous—and you’re a civilian.”

“Now you’re worried? It’s too late for that. You don’t exactly have a choice. Look, Corrie, you roped me into this whole goddamned thing, and now I’m committed.”

“Nora, I don’t know—”

“Well, I do.” She sighed. “Corrie, I’d consider it a favor. Anything’s better than sitting around here in a parking lot, going crazy thinking about my brother rotting in a cell. I’ll be at your place by six. Order some pizza.”

“But . . .”

The rest of her sentence was cut off as Nora ended the call, took a moment to push all thoughts of her own drama from her head, then started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

48

NORA TOOK THE hour’s drive to Albuquerque to pull herself together. Right now, there was nothing she could do for Skip—she had to trust Lightfeather. It was Wednesday. Four days until the trial recommenced. If she went home, she’d only stare at the walls and slowly freak out. This way, at least, she’d be busy helping Corrie—even if the mini-expedition seemed like a fool’s errand.

When she arrived, Corrie had pizza and beer waiting. Pulling out her laptop, Nora accessed her Institute internet account and downloaded a slew of data—old aerial photographs; satellite imagery; Google Earth images of the Manzano Mountains; and lidar maps. They focused on the Knot: the maze of canyons and ridges east of the Kirtland AFB fence. In her years at the New York Museum of Natural History and later at the Santa Fe Institute, Nora had developed expertise in remote sensing of archaeological sites from space. On one expedition to Utah, she had worked with a scientist from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, using synthetic aperture radar to discover an important prehistoric ruin in the remote canyons north of Lake Powell. She now used her expertise—and her access to the restricted imagery databases—to see if they could locate any small alterations to the landscape of the Knot that might have resulted from building the bunker exit or flattening an associated helicopter pad.

Corrie had said the presidential bunker was built around 1953, when Eisenhower was inaugurated, so Nora focused on any changes in the topography before and after that date. The bunker had been decommissioned eight years later, after the Soviets detonated the infamous Tsar Bomba, the largest thermonuclear explosion in history—its almost incomprehensible power immediately rendering the bunker complex obsolete.

As they went through the aerial and satellite images, doing A/B comparisons across time, Nora was able to winnow down the possibilities to three. One site looked particularly promising. A 1951 topo map showed a small, natural-looking ridge on the side of Escarabajo Peak, about a half mile east of the Kirtland fence. The earliest aerial photo Nora could find of the site was from 1963, and relatively fuzzy, but it seemed to show a cleared area on that ridge: a circular place devoid of fir trees. And a 2021 lidar image showed a small, unnaturally flattened area on that same ridge, although the trees had begun to grow back.

She had marked this promising location on her working topo maps as T1, for Target 1. The two other areas—not nearly so promising—she labeled T2 and T3.

They had also identified a possible jumping-off point north of the Knot, the deluxe dude ranch called Rancho Bonito. While it was closed for the winter, it seemed likely it would have a caretaker and the road would be plowed out.

They went to bed at one in the morning and rose again before sunrise. The day dawned clear and cold. Gathering up the marked-up maps and some relevant printouts, they went to the FBI office, where Corrie signed out a Jeep with a trailer hitch from the motor pool. Then they drove to Nora’s place, hooked up her snowmobile and flatbed, loaded some winter hiking supplies, and set off for the mountains. And finally, Corrie called Rancho Bonito and spoke to a caretaker, a fellow named Puller. He was helpful and was expecting them. They’d use the ranch as a point of departure into the Knot, about five miles away.

By the time they reached the foothills, it was past eleven, and a mackerel sky was spreading in from the west, indicating the approach of a storm. The day was forecast to be cold and windy, with snow starting at sunset and temperatures dropping into the low teens. The current snow depth in the high country was about eighteen inches—plenty for a snowmobile, but not so much that one couldn’t get through it on foot.

As the Jeep crept higher into the mountains, Nora stared again at her map and the circle she had marked as T1. She felt a certain sinking feeling. In the cold light of day, the entire plan seemed like a long shot. If they did find the bunker and, even more improbably, a body inside, the case would still be under embargo, quashed for good. Nothing they discovered would make a difference . . . because they’d never be allowed to reveal it. So why were they even bothering? What did it matter? Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. It didn’t matter—compared to Skip facing fifteen years in jail, it was irrelevant. Her brother was a decent, well-meaning person, a little impulsive but with a good heart. To think of him rotting his life away in prison over a bunch of lies was unimaginable. But somehow a long, agonizing weekend of enforced idleness, not knowing what his fate would be, felt almost worse.

The Jeep kept climbing. They hadn’t reached the snowline yet and the road was clear and dry. Nora was curious about this Rancho Bonito. She recalled its construction in a national forest inholding, and how the location within a wilderness area had caused some fuss several years ago.

The drive seemed interminable, one hairpin turn after another, the piñon and juniper trees giving way to ponderosa pines and then Douglas firs. They passed the snowline, with patches of white turning into continuous cover. Nora’s cell reception declined until at last a message popped up saying she had lost service. She put the phone into airplane mode to conserve its battery and made a concerted effort to focus on the upcoming expedition. All looked good: the weather was holding, the snowpack was excellent for snowmobiling, and it wasn’t too cold.

They finally reached the ranch gate, built from ponderosa vigas, its crossbar announcing RANCHO BONITO with an elk skull and antlers. The caretaker, as promised, had left the gate open for them. After a quarter mile the lodge came into view: a structure of massive timbers and red-painted metal roofs, surrounded by split rail fences, corrals, a horse barn, cabins, and outbuildings situated in a broad, park-like valley dotted with trees. A smooth expanse of fresh snow glittered in the pale light even as a shadow of the approaching storm passed over the landscape.

They pulled into the reception area. Immediately the door opened and a man came tumbling out. Corrie rolled down her window.

“Greetings!” the man said. He was wearing a red-and-black-checked jacket and had a round pink face, two blue eyes peering from underneath a stained cowboy hat. “You must be the FBI folks!”

“Right,” said Corrie, showing him her badge. “I’m Agent Corinne Swanson, and this is my associate, Dr. Nora Kelly.”

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