Déjà Vu: A Technothriller Hocking, Ian (online e book reader .TXT) 📖

rose at six and avoided the Strip. She read some paperwork while the car turned north, then east, then joined I-15 heading north-west. Twenty minutes later, she turned onto Route 169 at Crystal.

The car bumped over a pothole. Jennifer Proctor said, “Slow down.”

The car slowed. The road surface worsened as she had entered the Valley of Fire State Park. Sunlight struck the red sandstone and they did seem to ignite, but Jennifer did not look up from her notes until they had reached Met Four, a weather station in the northern area of the park. The car dropped her near the base of the outcrop. Sixty feet above her she could see the white walls of the centre. They were yellow in the early light. As she began to ascend the seven flights of stairs, the car parked.

A delicate but chill north-easterly wind stirred the air, still cold from the cloudless night. Jennifer raised her collar. Her feet clanged against the iron stairs. When she reached the top, she ignored the sign that said:

Warning! This is US Government Property Protected by Federal Law

If you are unsure whether you are supposed to be here, you are not. Return to the authorised trail immediately. You are committing a federal violation punishable by up to 20 years in jail. For medical assistance please contact State Park authorities.

The top of the outcrop was surrounded by a natural parapet of rock. Jennifer knew that it was not natural at all. There was only one gap: the top of the stairs. It was covered by a chain-link fence with an inset door. There was a slot near the handle for a card. Jennifer produced hers and swiped it through. She tried the door and it opened easily. She stepped through, closed it, and waited.

Met Four was two pre-fabricated buildings. An array of antennae and dishes sat on the top of the first. On the second, there were two flags: the Stars and Stripes and the standard of the US meteorological office. Around the buildings was a gravel path of chipped white stones. There was no sound whatsoever. The flags hardly stirred.

A door opened in the first building. A man walked out. He had no weapon, but Jennifer knew that another man with a submachine gun was standing out of sight.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said. If he had said, ‘Morning, miss,’ then she would have to turn away, go home and await instructions.

“Morning,” she said.

She walked to the door of the first building and went inside. It was perfectly unremarkable. A fortyish man sat at a desk and pecked at an old computer keyboard. Behind him, a secretary placed some papers in a filing cabinet. Jennifer had walked into the same room once a day for an entire year. The woman and the man had not moved. Her department chief had told her that the woman had a revolver in the filing cabinet, the man a silenced rifle alongside his chair.

“Good morning, Jim,” she said.

“Morning, Jennifer.”

She walked through a chipboard partition into a cloakroom. It was an unpractical distance from the door of the hut. She placed her coat on a hanger and did a twirl. Up high, behind a one-way panel in the false wall, a camera watched her. A computer calculated the probability of a concealed weapon based upon her height, weight, movement and her microwave reflectivity.

There was an old trench coat in the corner. She moved it and pressed her thumb against the wood. The nail glowed pink. Partial sections of her DNA were read by a laser, decoded and checked with a signature file. They matched.

A voice said, “Stand with your hands by your sides. Maximum capacity ten people. You are being constantly monitored. If you encounter a problem, please wait for assistance.”

She began to sink. She stood carefully and waited for the floor to clear her head. There was nothing to hold on to. When she was three or four metres down, a panel slid over the top of the shaft. Fluorescent panels provided light.

A gap appeared near her feet, then widened. She had reached the top floor of the research centre. From here on, she would need to use conventional elevators and stairs to navigate the complex.

The platform stopped. There was a transparent booth with a uniformed guard inside. Another transparent panel blocked access to the main corridor. A few hundred scientists worked in the centre, with a few hundred more support staff, technicians, and security personnel. Only those with Jennifer’s level of clearance could enter through the weather station. That included the bulk of the scientists. Those with military credentials had a number of other, more convenient routes. Tunnels, she guessed.

The guard looked up.

“Jennifer Proctor,” she said. “Scientist.”

He smiled. “How are you today, Jennifer?”

“Fine, Dan. How are you?”

“Having a good one. Anything to declare?”

“Only my of love of Beethoven.”

“Okidokey. Step through.”

The transparent panel swung open. The sounds of a thousand busy people. Air-conditioning. Electricity.

Dan gave her a laminated ID card. She grabbed a lab coat from a nearby rail. The ID stuck to the Velcro on her lapel. IDs were taken seriously. A few months ago, hers had fallen into the toilet and she hadn’t had the guts to take it out. As soon as a guard had seen her, she was arrested until the story was confirmed. The guard had turned out to be vaguely human, just a guy called Dan.

“Have a great day,” Dan said.

“You too.”

She walked down the main corridor. It was packed with offices. People emerged carrying pieces of paper. Minicars rolled past. She walked on. This was the top level of the research centre. It had six floors. The lowest one was thirty metres below. The lower floors were mostly workshop, testing laboratories and equipment stores. The higher ones had administrative offices and recreational areas. There was a gym, a sauna, and a small swimming pool. All the facilities were under intense pressure. Booking was essential. Jennifer seldom bothered.

She headed towards her lab. It