Dulce Truths

“As you can see,” Bennewitz continues behind Walter, strolling forward to get up close to the map, though he stays away from it and crosses his arms, staring up at it, “there are tunnels stretching all over the southwest, and we’ve got other maps showing the rest of the country, and the world.”

“And each of those tunnels has tracks which carry the same tube trains that brought us into Dulce,” Walter says.

“God,” Turn says, staring at the map, “there must be a dozen bases just in the Four Corners region!”

“Not bases,” Bennewitz says, stepping forward to tap at the map, “but stations. Underground connecting stations, to be exact. The aliens use ‘em when they come down from space, docking their ships and getting onto the trains. That way they can conduct their business here on Earth without ever having to step on the surface of the planet, and without ever having to fly their ships around where we can all see ‘em.”

“What about other places, Paul?” Walter asks. “Are there other sites tied-in to this ‘shuttle network’ other than those which you’ve just mentioned?”

“Yeah, and if so, where are these entrances?” Turn chimes-in.

Bennewitz chuckles. “Where? Where? Why… they’re everywhere, that’s where! They crisscross the world as an endless subterranean highway system, kinda like a freeway except this one’s totally underground. It’s got miles and miles of paved roads for cars and trucks and even busses, and then there’s the track system for the trains.”

He scoffs. “There’s thousands of miles of that, tens of thousands. The trains carry both passengers and freight and collectively this underground network is called the ‘Sub-Global System.’”

“Catchy,” Turn says dryly and with a roll of the eyes.

“And catching,” Bennewitz continues, giving a nod Turn’s way. “Those that use the underground system never want to go back to the old, aboveground ones. And can you blame ‘em? After you’ve taken a flight across the Atlantic, why would you ever want to take a slow-moving ship across again?”

“You wouldn’t,” Walter agrees.

“How do they power those trains?” Turn asks, getting his question in quick before Bennewitz can get started again.

Bennewitz nods. “Maglev technology and the vacuum method. Both allow the tube trains to travel faster than the speed of sound.”

“A global system like that must have entrances all over the place then,” Turn points out.

“It does,” Bennewitz says. “Here in America you’ll find ‘em in every state of the union. Most times the entrances are camouflaged as sand quarries or mining operations. Other, more complex entrance portals are found on military bases. And most of those bases are right here, in the South- and Midwest. New Mexico and Arizona have the largest number of entrances, followed by California, Montana, Idaho, Colorado, Pennsylvania, Kansas, Arkansas and Missouri. Of all the states, Florida and North Dakota have the least. Wyoming, being as rural and low-populated as she is, has a road that opens directly into the subterranean freeway.”

“You’re kiddin’!” Turn says with a laugh.

“Wish I was,” Bennewitz replies. “The good news is that the road is no longer in use, although it could be reactivated if they decide to do so… and with minimal cost. It’s located near Brooks Lake, and who knows, the way things are going, maybe we’ll need it.”

“Maybe,” Walter agrees, “but for now we’ve got to focus on the treachery taking place at Blue Lake.” He looks to Turn. “Something’s about to go down, we know of it, and now we just have to wait for it to happen.”

“And then what?” Turn says, figuring he’d save himself a lot of time and grief if he just played along and didn’t ask for explanations.

Bennewitz laughs. “Why, then we ride in to save the day!”

11 — Imprisoned

Blue Lake

Friday, May 25, 1979

8:34 AM

Mark stares venom at the door, and he hopes whoever comes through it next would see that look. So far no one had come, however, no one since the guards had brought him into this small room. There was little there — Mark’s chair, a rickety metal desk against one wall, a single chair for it, and then a few file cabinets and cardboard boxes. They’d taken the cuffs from one hand, put another set onto that hand, then they’d locked both of them to the metal chair that Mark was now sitting in. That’d been an hour ago… maybe longer. All Mark could do during that time was fret and fume, and wonder at who had set him up.

Aaron… Carl… perhaps someone I don’t even know?