Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 32, No. 13, Mid-December 1987

Children of the Silo by Michael Beres

Inside the capsule, Donovan could feel the motion and could hear the clatter of the capsule being lowered into a shipping crate. And he could hear the muted sounds of the crate being nailed shut. If he’d had claustrophobia he surely would have gone over the edge by now, or he would have taken deep breaths to allow the breathing mixture to put him back into the full state of suspended animation. During training he had discovered his ability to come out of suspended animation several times without his trainers knowing. The method was something like counting to ten over and over. He would count, concentrate, program his mind with numbers, and awaken minutes or hours or days into his sleep. The only problem was that when he did awaken he was not exactly certain of how long it had been.

Donovan understood the need for secrecy. If the other side knew the approximate location of a silo it wouldn’t take much effort with satellite scanning to pinpoint the exact location and assign a silo killer laser satellite to it. And if that happened the silo and its missiles would have to be subtracted, leading to a dangerous imbalance for some period of time. The secrecy had another benefit, too. No one wanted a silo in their back yard or anywhere within a hundred miles of where they lived. Therefore it was best to keep the locations of the underground silos secret from everyone, even the men and women who were assigned to them.

The fact that he would be locked in a silo with two others for an entire year did not bother him. If he had had any fears of that, the training would surely have brought it out. And he did not fear being put in suspended animation. Even with his ability to control the suspended animation somewhat, he was more than willing to put himself under after awakening himself for a moment or two. Another advantage given for putting him under was to allow several months to pass so that knowledge of political situations would have no effect on performance. During the time he was under, the balance of power would have shifted back and forth several times and many smaller countries would have aligned themselves accordingly in the nuclear stalemate that needed to be maintained.

The capsule was swinging slightly from side to side, the crate probably being hoisted by a crane. The mild shifting of his weight from left to right was nauseating. Time to sleep. He repeated the rhythm, the cycles, the one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten to himself. He took a deep breath from the mixture that smelled somewhat like leaves raked in a pile, and slept.

A dream came. He was in a room lying on a bed. The walls and the ceiling were covered with maps, maps of the world, maps of countries and oceans and cities. Directly above him was the almost-square map of New Mexico. The squiggles of roads on the map were unrecognizable. Then, as if she were in zero-gravity, his mother crawled along the ceiling. She wore a robe and her hair was in curlers, just the way she always looked in the kitchen in the morning when she prepared breakfast for him and his father. His mother reached toward the New Mexico map, pointing, smiling at him, falling atop him, her body spreading across him, pinning him in so he could not move. Dark even when he opened his eyes. His breathing restricted.

But when he was able to lift his arms and touch the mask over his mouth and nose, he knew where he was. The capsule, awakened from the sleep by the dream. He knew where he was, yet he did not know. The crate with the capsule inside could be anywhere. A warehouse, or perhaps already at the silo awaiting his tour of duty.

The dream. Some of it real. His room as a boy adorned with maps. But not his mother crawling on the ceiling. She would be in the kitchen calling him. “Come eat, Donnie. I made waffles, Donnie. Where are you this morning? In Africa? In South America? At the South Pole?”

She would come and sit on the edge of the bed so that it would sway to one side. “You’ve slept enough, Donnie.” She would touch his arm and when she went back to the kitchen the bed would sway back again, righting itself.

When Donovan opened and closed his eyes there was no change in the pure blackness of his capsule. If he were yet unborn would it be like this? Was it like this? As a fetus had he awakened in the womb of the mother he never knew? He knew he was adopted when he was very young. His adoptive parents believed in the truth above all, even to the point of being unable to fulfill genuine parental love and admitting it. “We love you almost as much as if you were our own son,” said the father one warm afternoon on a visit to the city zoo while they threw protein pebbles to the sad-eyed apes in their clean and tidy cages. After college he never saw his adoptive parents again. To Donovan the terms father and mother were simply descriptive names given to the man and woman who had raised him.

The capsule seemed to be swaying slightly as it had when he succumbed to sleep. But there was a difference. Instead of a side to side with a mild downward pressure as if swinging from a crane, the side to side was as if atop a pole or on the bed, his mother coming in again and again, trying to awaken him. “Come eat, Donnie. I made waffles, Donnie.”

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He gagged saliva up from the back of his throat, spread it throughout his mouth and onto his lips. He spoke aloud to check his voice and hearing.

“How long have you been asleep, Donovan?” His voice was muffled rudely by the mask, but he left the mask on in case there was a leak in the fluid or bowel elimination systems. “Where are you, Donovan? Is the rocking motion because you’re on a ship? If so it seems regular enough, a fairly smooth voyage. More likely you’re on a rocking machine designed to keep your body fluids moving. Down in the old silo on the old rocking machine.” He sang to the tune of “Down by the Old Mill Stream.” “Down in the old silo rockin’-machine, where I first met me.”

But where was that? Where could he place it on a map? If only he could see a map with a line tracing his journey, an X marking the destination. In the dream his mother had pointed to New Mexico, to the lower central region. Just north of the San Andres Range where he had been trained, where he had been packed like a sardine in his capsule. Mustard-colored fluids in bottles at the sides of the capsule. A sardine packed in mustard. Lord, he was hungry! Hungry for food and — and what? If only he knew where he was. Had they forgotten a phobia in training? And if there was a phobia for not knowing topographically where on earth he was, what was it called?

He tried to remember if, during his pre-training interviews, anyone had asked about his childhood fondness for maps, his desire to know exactly where he was. He could see the backs of his parents’ heads riding in the front seat of the car. Him in the back with his maps and a marker charting the exact position on the journey, at night using a flashlight. Vacations to him had not been valued for the arrival at a desirable destination. They had been an opportunity to chart the surface of a map and to glance out a window to verify the location.

After college he had joined the Air Force and taken every possible opportunity for travel. The farther the better, the less time spent in one place the better. A technician servicing defense systems around the globe.

He spoke aloud again. “So why are you here? Why did you volunteer for this? A year in one place and you won’t even know where you are. Utah? Nevada? North Dakota?”

The money. The eventual retirement to unlimited travel. The world would be his after the year in the silo. If only he could sleep the entire year in the silo.

He could feel his heartbeat. It was speeding up. Too fast. Must sleep. He took several deep breaths, closed his eyes, imagined a map of the country above him, a line on the map indicating his exact minute-to-minute position relative to the coasts, to cities, to lakes and rivers. Again, he slept.

“Good morning. Major Donovan? Up an’ at ’em, major.”

The light was blood-red. His heart felt like an engine running wild in his chest. Someone was lifting his legs, pulling them. Moisture touched his lips, and when he opened his mouth a soft wet probe entered him. The liquid was warm and sweet as he sucked on the probe. A dream?

He raised his hands toward his face and felt a touch of other flesh.

“Relax, major. You don’t want to wake up too fast.”

The ceiling was lined with pipes and wires painted red. He stared at the intricacy of the ceiling, imagining that it was a map that would tell him where he was. He was certain he had slept a long time. Coming awake during training and even the two or three times he had come awake inside the capsule never felt like this. A baby fresh from the womb. The sweet liquid he suckled spread a pleasant, triumphant warmth throughout his body. Then he began to itch all over.

Captain Lacy had a full beard and spoke quite softly. “My voice doesn’t echo off the walls this way,” said Captain Lacy. “I’ll get used to speaking in a normal voice as soon as I get on the outside. And you, major, will begin speaking softly like the rest of us. It comes with the job.”

“Where are the others?”

“In their quarters with their sponsors. They’ve found that it’s easier to get acclimated this way. Each of us short-timers spends the first few hours with his replacement.”

“Why does my skin itch so?”

“Because it hasn’t had to flex and stretch in quite a while. You’ll feel fine after a hot shower. Then we’ll have lunch with the others.”

As his eyes adjusted Captain Lacy turned up the normal lighting and the ceiling and walls turned from red to grey. But there were other colors, too. Pinks and blues and oranges of the tags stuck to pipes and wires. It was like a map with cities identified in various colors, the pipes and wires raised, giving shadows, a wonderful relief map.

Captain Lacy’s face came over him. His hair was black, his face pinkish, his cheeks rosy, his eyes blue. Santa Claus with a black beard. The color had done it. Now that the normal lighting was on he felt alive again.

“It’s good to be awake,” he said.

Captain Lacy smiled. “I know. I know.”

The six of them ate lunch together seated about a large round table in the galley. Captain Lacy and Lieutenants Boyle and Francis, all three with beards, devoured fresh vegetables and fruit that had been brought through the air locks with the three capsules. The new arrivals, himself, Captain Orr, and Lieutenant Fazio, were restricted to puddings and liquids for two days to acclimate their systems to food again.

Unlike the room in which he had awakened, with its grey walls and exposed conduits and pipes and wires, the galley was quite pleasant. Wood-grained cabinets surrounded them. Indirect lighting at imaginary windows came through ivory curtains. The low acoustic ceiling gave a cosy, quiet feeling as if they were in the kitchen of a small home.

They chattered like birds during the meal, Lacy, Boyle, and Francis asking about the outside while he and Orr and Fazio recounted what they could remember. The colonization of the Moon base by several hundreds from each power, the signing of the Antarctic Treaty, the California earthquake, the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series. But these bits of news could be two months or several months old depending upon how long he and Orr and Fazio had been asleep.

After lunch — if it was really lunchtime, could have been midnight up top — Captain Lacy gave instructions.

Captain Lacy leaned back in his swivel chair, reaching above and behind his head, opening and closing a cabinet door as he spoke. This particular cabinet contained row upon row of canned vegetables. Lacy’s tan uniform was stained at the armpits.

“So, here we are, gentlemen. Us at the end of our stint and you just beginning. But don’t worry, the year will be finished before you know it.”

Boyle and Francis both scratched their beards and smiled at one another. Lacy looked at them, coughed and continued.

“We’ll be down here with you for one full week. Each of you will be trained by your sponsor to take over his duties and his shift. That means I’ll train Major Donovan, Lieutenant Boyle will take care of Captain Orr, and Lieutenant Francis, Lieutenant Fazio. Donovan will take over my position as exec, but since rank doesn’t mean much down here, we’ll drop all the usual formalities. And since the computer recognizes us by last name we’ve found it best to do the same. All communication with HQ is via the computer. It’s scrambled and on a variable delay. And, as you already know, all coordinates are coded.”

Captain Lacy tipped forward on the chair, rested his elbows on the table, and looked to each of the newcomers. “Believe me, gentlemen. There is absolutely no way of determining our location. We’ve been here a year and, as far as we know, we could be in a suburb of Chicago or we could be in the Rocky Mountains. The best thing to do, psychologically, is to immediately pick a spot where you think you are, and stick with that. Don’t dwell on it. After all, it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

Captain Lacy stood and took his tray to the cupboard where he scraped his plate into the disposal and stacked his plate and utensils and coffee cup in the dishwasher. His movements were quick, automatic, a machine feeding machines. Then he turned toward them.

“Let’s get to it, gentlemen. And if you don’t understand anything, no matter how minor, ask. Donovan. Let’s go. You’re scheduled for R and R now but we can get in a grand tour before bedtime.”

For Donovan bedtime was 0400 to 1200 hours. As he lay in his bunk he stared at the intricacy of the plumbing and wiring on the ceiling, all of it lighted by the makeshift red glow that was supposed to be his night. He closed his eyes and remembered the layout of the entire facility again, a three-dimensional map in his mind. A detailed map showing control rooms, life support modules, stores, the galley, and the vertical shaft to the outside. But the map floated as if in space, an unmoored life raft at sea. If only he knew where the installation was located he would be satisfied. Would he go crazy? Only six days gone and his desire to be grounded, to know where he was — and when — nagged at him like something physical, like a narcotic that had invaded his system.

Lacy knew nothing of his desire — or was it a phobia? — to know where he was. During the week of training he had learned well. After today’s session Lacy had praised him. “You’ll be a fine exec, Donovan. And when you get out you can look forward to just about picking your own commission. You’ll be able to go wherever you want in this man’s army.” He did not tell Lacy that what he really wanted with all his being was to know where he was right now. And to that end he had formulated a plan.

He was taking over Lacy’s position as exec and control systems officer. And as such he had been trained this week in the operation of all systems internal to the installation. This included life support and communication equipment. But it also included exit and entry controls. These controls he had studied especially hard. A fine riddle, a game like the ones he had played on his computer as a boy. How to get through the series of hatches and air locks without detection.

After two days of studying diagrams he found that undetected escape was impossible unless the system were reprogrammed manually. And this reprogramming could only be done at a time when the hatches were cycled. Tomorrow, when Lacy and Boyle and Francis left, he could do it. He could be ready at each panel, apply the appropriate patches at the appropriate times. And, once done, he would be able to come and go as he wished during his stay.

Perhaps he would be satisfied simply by knowing that he could leave whenever he wanted. Perhaps he would easily make it through the year just knowing he was free to come and go, free to find out where he was. As Lacy had said, in the mountains or just outside Chicago?

His mind was made up. Tomorrow, after the year’s worth of garbage was hoisted up the shaft, after the three short-timers had begun their ascent, he would order Orr and Fazio to their posts and patch the appropriate panels as the hatches above opened and closed.

After a month in what was designated as Silo 414 by the computer, Donovan was surprised at how little he saw or spoke with Orr and Fazio. Their only meetings were brief conversations between shifts or an occasional meal together in the galley. They usually ate together and sometimes played cards in the galley on Sundays. Although they did not really know what day of the week it was, or what time it was, they had agreed for their own purposes, for their internal clocks, that the old crew had departed at 0800 on Monday morning, the beginning of a work week, the beginning of their year in Silo 414.

As he went off duty, as he began his R and R shift to be followed by his bedtime shift, Donovan congratulated himself on waiting so long before his excursion to the outside. He had been more than patient, but now he was ready. He had stowed a heavy parka near the shaft in case he came out to a blizzard or sub-freezing temperatures of a northern state, perhaps even Alaska. He had entered, a DO NOT DISTURB message into his console. He had studied Orr’s and Fazio’s habits during the month and was relatively certain they would not seek him out in his quarters.

Would it be day or night up top? Was he in the Eastern, Central, Mountain, or Pacific time zone? Soon he would know. He had set the final patch in the series he had set a month earlier. Now the hatches could be opened and closed without detection. The last hatch, the only one that could not be opened manually from the outside, he would leave open until he returned. The only way he could be discovered was if the shaft came out in the middle of a city — not very likely — or if there was an attack while he was outside. And if that happened, who would care that he had come out. He would simply die like the other poor souls above.

He set his watch alarm for four hours. He had decided to limit his stay to four hours in order to avoid detection. But surely in that time he would be able to gather clues of his location. He put on the parka and began the climb up the ladder. If it was warm above he would simply leave the parka behind near the top hatch.

It was night. The stars were visible from horizon to horizon. No mountains, no cities, no trees, the terrain flat. He recognized several constellations, but without knowing the time of day he could not position himself east or west. He was north, though. The temperature — about zero, he guessed — the fact that it was winter, and the positions of the stars told him north. Perhaps near the Canadian border, perhaps even in Alaska. He had not studied astronomy sufficiently to know exactly. If he had known he was to come out on a clear night he would certainly have done so.

As his eyes became accustomed to the faint starlight, he saw a line running at an angle not too distant. He set his compass and walked toward it across a lumpy farm field — plowed for winter? Soon he was walking on gravel. He reset his compass, marked his entry onto the road by piling clods of dirt in the form of an X, and set off to the southwest.

Soon there was a light, then another. A town. He lit his watch face, only forty-five minutes had passed. Soon he would know. He would see a name on a sign. He imagined himself back in his quarters looking up the town on a map. Though the air was crisp and fresh compared to the stale air of Silo 414 he did not care. His desire was simply to find out where he was and get back undetected. He was a boy again, a boy at his computer logged onto a network where he did not belong. A game of hide-and-seek, his chest feeling light, his head floating in excitement and anticipation. The lights of the town getting closer and closer, roofs visible now against the sky, steep, sloped roofs with rounded edges. A make-believe village, a fantasy land.

“Astanavlivat!”

Astanavlivat? He stopped. A man came from the darkness to his right. The man was outlined against the lights of the town. A large-headed man. No, a hat, a fur hat. And a long coat. And, flashing in starlight, a rifle pointed at him. The man moved behind him, nudged him forward toward the town. Within a few steps another man with a rifle joined them and the two began speaking in Russian.

He was blindfolded and his hands were bound behind with icy handcuffs. He was led toward the town. He could tell by the sounds of dogs barking and an occasional car. A truck came from the town and he was put inside. As the truck bumped and lurched on the road he wondered if the Russians were simply a small force or part of some major invasion. He must be in Alaska, perhaps near the sea where these Russians had landed. He may have given away the site of Silo 414 but, if he could get away, he might be a hero. He might be the one who warned of the Russians on American soil. He pulled at the handcuffs and was promptly poked in the ribs.

He was taken into a building, guards at both sides holding him, one behind poking him in the back with a rifle, one in front giving orders. No chance to escape. Not yet. Not until he knew his options, or knew where he was.

His blindfold was removed. He was in a room with bare, whitewashed walls. He sat on a bench before an unpainted wooden table. Whoever had removed the blindfold was unlocking the handcuffs. He looked from side to side and saw no one else, only a closed wood door to his right. Then the man stepped from behind him, put the handcuffs on the table, and sat across from him.

The man was in his fifties, round-faced, greying hair matted down where a hat had been. The man could be Russian but since he wore an overcoat over a plain grey business suit he could not tell. The man’s cheeks were rosy. Too much vodka or just the cold outside? The man stared at him, blinking. His eyes were blue.

“So,” said the man. “Let’s get on with it.” The man spoke without an accent. If anything he sounded like a midwesterner.

“Because of your training I know better than to ask questions. So I’ll do the talking, Major Donovan. You know, of course, that you won’t be returning to 414. The other two have already been notified of your absence and we’ll have a replacement in there shortly. My name is Bernstein, by the way. I’m with the State Department.”

Bernstein stood, removed his overcoat and laid it on the far end of the table. Then he sat back down. “Warm in here.”

He stared at Bernstein. Bernstein the Russian? KGB?

“Major, you’ve caused a serious breach in security. At the moment I’m not interested in your reason for leaving the installation. What I am interested in is getting your full cooperation so that we can successfully seal the security breach. I’ll get right to the point, major. Silo 414 is in the Soviet Union, several hundred miles northeast of Moscow. The name of the small village you were walking toward is unimportant. In fact, the less you know beyond what I’ve already said will make your debriefing a lot easier.”

He imagined a map of Russia, could remember only the rough positions of Leningrad and Moscow and Gorky. He laughed. Russia indeed. He watched Bernstein’s face for a reaction, but Bernstein simply stared.

“The humor of the situation will pass quickly, major. The Russian soldiers who found you now know that Americans are manning 414 and that will have to be dealt with.” Bernstein took a notebook from his pocket and flipped through it as he spoke. “Your attempted bypass of the egress alarm system was detected last month, but we could not put guards out there to wait for your possible attempted escape without arousing suspicions. And we thought that perhaps you had bypassed the circuits simply to satisfy your psychological tendencies. We know much about you, major. More than you think.”

Bernstein put the notebook away. “You’ll be put back into suspended animation and shipped back in a capsule for debriefing. Punishment for disobeying orders would be pointless, since you’ll never serve in a missile installation again. Any questions?”

Bernstein appeared ready to leave, his hands braced on the edge of the table.

“Wait. Of course I have questions. I don’t know if you’re a Russian or an American or what, but I’ll ask anyway.”

“Go ahead, major.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Americans are manning Russian missiles?”

“Yes.”

“And just where are those missiles aimed?”

“Why, at the U.S., of course.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Very few. Only the highest authorities, and of course the computers know.”

“But what about the capsules? What about the packaging and shipping?”

“The computers print out labels and shipping instructions for a series of crates. You came over by ship.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that Russians are manning American missiles.”

“Is that what you want me to tell you?”

He slammed his fist on the table. Bernstein blinked, stared at his fist.

“No need to get violent, major. My job here isn’t to give you the facts. I’m just doing my job. And I’m also giving you the courtesy of asking some questions before you’re put under.”

“But it doesn’t make sense!”

“Of course it does. They man our missile silos and we man theirs. It makes perfect sense. We have a vested interest in making sure that their missile silos are secure because if they should ever weaken in their capability then we would be tempted to start a conflict. And, vice versa, the Russians have the same vested interest in our missiles. The system was designed never to be used and this arrangement, to my way of thinking, assures that.”

He imagined a map of the world, a map with miniature missiles pointed east and west. It really didn’t make any difference. Actually it did make sense now that he knew. The leaders of the two powers had actually talked, had actually agreed on something, had agreed on a method to maintain the balance of power so cleverly.

Bernstein looked at his watch. “Well now, major. I must go. A technician will be here shortly to begin the procedure. Please don’t make trouble.”

“I won’t. Now I understand. But could you— Would it be too much to ask if I could be shown the route of my return journey?”

“I don’t see why not, major. I’ll get a map and show you while they get you ready.”

In the dark hallway outside the room Bernstein watched with a man in a fur hat as three soldiers accompanied by a technician wheeled a large packing crate into the room.

“What is it you have there?” said the man.

“A map,” said Bernstein. “He wanted to know where he’s going.”

“And you showed him?”

“I showed him a route home.”

“You know he must be eliminated. A man so insane he breaks out of a silo cannot be trusted.”

“I know. I gave him a dream to go to the bottom of the sea with.”

“He is insane. The very fact that he so easily agreed with our methods of deterrence proves it.”

Bernstein smiled. “He’s young and foolish.”

“And we are old and foolish.”

“Perhaps,” said Bernstein. “Perhaps you’re right.”

The man in the fur hat put his arm around Bernstein. “Of course I’m right. Come, comrade, I have excellent vodka in my office. You drink it with orange juice I believe.”

“Yes,” said Bernstein. “Orange juice is just fine.”

“Good. Several crates of oranges arrived from your state of Florida along with the replacement for 414. We must make use of the oranges before they spoil.”

As they walked down the hallway the sounds of hammering came from the room. The packing crate was being prepared for its journey — first by truck on bone-jarring roads, then the swaying and clacking of a railroad car, then the rolling of the ship.

“In a way I envy him,” said Bernstein. “To fall asleep at peace with the world and simply to stay asleep would be my choice of death.”

“Mine also,” said the man in the fur hat. “Only a fool would wish otherwise.”