In the small three-room apartment she rented for the summer, Heidi Hickman drew a deep, cleansing breath and let it out in a slow flow that gave her at least some relief. She had been right. She knew it now. She pushed back from the three node connections that were pushing data to and from her underground fortress across the county at super-post speeds. Only the best equipment for her—that’s what Collins had always said. Do your things. Send me the bill.
Yes, Yellow Springs had cash back in those days.
Now she was lucky she’d made her own pile.
The nodes flashed on the well-worn tabletop, displaying an array of images in the holographic space above. Phosphorous green. Ruby red. Very Matrix of her.
But they showed her what she needed.
All the official records located in the City Records District showed the Basilica at Muskrat Slough was nothing more than a simple baseball park. Built back in the day with advanced construction techniques that turned what was historically a patch of sawgrass and swampland into a firm foundation for what was, she had to admit, a magical baseball field. So, yes. All the architectural plans were there and they all said the same thing: normal baseball field.
But she’d tied into the military systems of four different countries, and triangulated the sonar, microwave, and infra-red plots—along with magnetic readings and spectrum analysis they used to observe each other’s missile bunkers. Instead of missiles, though, Heidi was fishing for a different thing.
And she’d found, it too.
A network of catacombs dug down deep into the layers of earth crust below the Basilica and Muskrat Slough—with twists and turns and wild stairwells and elevators leading to many places, including the tallest spire built into the distant ranges behind centerfield. Peering at the display, she recalled standing in the stadium a few short weeks ago and witnessing the emerald flashes coming from the highest windows of that tallest of spires.
A shiver ran down her back.
Something was going on here. She’d known it from the moment she’d first been here, back in the 40s sometime. Back when things were new and when she was sussing out the whole pigshit thing with Vinnie Vitale and his connections out west. She’d had other things to do then, though. Now it was time to put this front and center.
Her news feeds said the team Ron Collins managed was out hiring old players and negotiating with aging superstars, which, of course, was not like him.
If that was true, her time was growing short.
She stood up, and stretched, then shouldered on her black hoodie.
Time for a burrito, or maybe some sushi.
Then she’d go back to the ballpark and see what she could see.
Behind her, the image blinked out of existence, but not before she took one more look and memorized all the entrance points.
