The drainage culvert beneath Station Zero was a narrow concrete tube barely three feet in diameter, filled with four inches of freezing snowmelt that bit through Julian’s trousers as he crawled on his hands and knees.
Clara led the way, her MP5 held clear of the water, her movements silent and efficient.
They emerged into the dark, icy sub-basement beneath the old radar dome. The air was dry, freezing cold, and smelled of decades of dry rot, old grease, and high-voltage transformer oil.
High above them, through the concrete floorboards, came the loud, rhythmic thrum of industrial cooling fans working at maximum capacity.
Julian pulled himself out of the culvert, wiping ice and mud from his knees. He raised his flashlight, illuminating the subterranean room.
The walls were built from t
