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security
checkpoint, where Chapel had the usual hassles that came with having part of
your body replaced by metal. The soldiers who did his pat-down and search were
at least respectful—he doubted he was the only amputee they’d seen that day.
Chapel and the CIA man were given laminates, and a helpful guard gave them
directions on how to get to the office Laughing Boy named.
    Chapel was not surprised when, five minutes later,
Laughing Boy ignored the directions altogether and took him deep into C Ring and
to an office on the wrong side of the building. They passed quickly through,
ignored by all the clerks in their cubicles, and back to an elevator in an
otherwise empty hallway. When the elevator doors opened, Chapel saw two soldiers
inside carrying M4 carbines. The soldiers demanded to see their laminates and
then let them in. One of the soldiers punched a button marked H and they started
to descend.
    Chapel was a little surprised by that. The Pentagon
was built in five concentric rings of office space, rings A through E. There
were two sublevels underground called F and G that he knew of. He’d never heard
of an H level at all.
    When the elevator doors opened again, he looked out
into a long hallway with unadorned concrete walls. The floor and ceiling were
painted a glossy battleship gray. Unmarked green doors stood every dozen yards
or so down the corridor, which seemed to stretch on forever. There were no
office numbers, nor any signs distinguishing one door from another. “How do you
even know which office you want?” Chapel asked Laughing Boy as they headed down
the echoing hall.
    â€œIf you’re down here and you don’t know which one
is which, you’re already in trouble,” Laughing Boy told him.
    â€œThis isn’t where DIA DX has its offices,” Chapel
pointed out. “I’ve seen those before. This isn’t—”
    He stopped because Laughing Boy was staring at him.
Waiting for him to ask a question. Chapel was certain there would be no
answers.
    â€œNever mind,” Chapel said.
    â€œGood dog.”
    The CIA man took the lead, setting off at a good
clip, and Chapel followed. He did a double take when, for the first time, he saw
the back of Laughing Boy’s head. There was a bad scar there—more of a dent—where
the flesh had turned white and no hair grew.
    â€œCome on,” Laughing Boy said. “We’re already late.”
He stood next to a door exactly like all the others, his hand on the knob.
    Chapel hurried to catch up with him. Laughing Boy
turned the knob and revealed the room beyond—which was nothing like what Chapel
had expected.
    THE PENTAGON:
APRIL 12, T+4:59
    Classical music filled the air, soft and
almost lost under the sound of falling water coming from a splashing fountain in
the center of the space. The room beyond the unmarked door was lined with wooden
shelves full of leather-bound books, and the floor was covered by a rich blue
carpet. There were, of course, no windows—they had to be a couple hundred feet
underground—but the fountain kept the room from feeling claustrophobic.
    Armchairs upholstered in red leather were gathered
around the room in small conversation areas, while to one side stood a fully
stocked wet bar with comfortable-looking stools. On the other side of the room
stood a massive globe in a brass stand and a giant map cabinet with dozens of
drawers.
    It didn’t look like an underground bunker. It
didn’t look like an office, either. It looked like a private club, the kind of
place where old diplomats would sit and discuss foreign affairs over snifters of
brandy.
    â€œFallout shelter,” someone said from behind
Chapel’s shoulder.
    He turned and saw a man of about sixty dressed in a
three-piece suit and a bow tie. The suit was tweed—elegant but not exactly
stylish—and the man in it looked like a throwback to the nineteenth century,
with long sideburns and a