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csin is pretty much the opposite of Bruce Wayne,” Juan said.
After a hundred yards, the tunnel opened into a much larger cave. Locsin was apparently so sure that the cave entrance was undetectable that he hadn’t bothered to post any guards where the tunnel entered the cave.
“This must be the cavern Beth mentioned in her email to Raven,” Linda said.
The camera’s limited view didn’t show how high the cave’s ceiling went. But the cave floor around them, leveled and compacted with crushed rock, was well lit by arc lamps powered by a huge diesel power plant. A tanker semi-trailer was parked alongside feeding it fuel, indicating Locsin’s headquarters complex was much more than simply a few men huddled in a dank cave.
The delivery truck moved through a cluster of low-slung buildings. Right now, Juan was just trying to get a feel for the overall layout of the place, but the recording from the camera feed would give them detailed intel they could review when planning the mission to infiltrate the cave and rescue Beth.
The truck continued on through a central plaza with a stalagmite in the center. For a split second, Juan saw a strange sight beyond it, unexpected for the interior of a cavern.
Eric saw it, too, because he said, “Was that a helicopter?”
“Looked like it to me,” Juan said. “Linda, I want the highest-resolution satellite photos you can get of this area. There must be another opening that we haven’t seen yet.”
“On it,” she replied.
The truck kept driving and did a three-point turn almost like they were giving a three-hundred-sixty-degree tour of the place. Juan counted at least a dozen buildings and twice as many trucks and Humvees. Beth was right in saying the place was huge.
The men they saw were all muscle-bound. Definitely long-term Typhoon users. There were enough of them to populate a small town, which meant a full-on assault was out of the question. Juan was already formulating a plan for getting in and out without being seen.
At one point in the truck’s turn, he saw a large cart being wheeled from a large three-story-tall building to one just as big but only two stories high. The tarp covering the object on top slid aside briefly before it was put back into place. It was the exact same type of black drone that had damaged the Oregon.
“I guess we know where they’re manufacturing their Kuyogs,” Murph said. “Judging by the size of those buildings, they could have hundreds of them in there.”
Given that each of the Kuyogs was packed with high explosives, Juan noted that could come in handy if the need arose.
The truck backed up to a long one-story building where the largest number of the men were entering or leaving, which meant it was likely the barracks, mess hall, and kitchen.
The driver and his companion shut down the truck, came around the back, and began unloading it. For fifteen minutes, they shuttled food crates inside with dollies. While they did, Juan had Linda pan the camera as much as she could to focus in on whatever was in view so they could construct a map of the place.
Then a female voice made Juan sharply say, “Quiet!”
Everyone in the op center fell silent. The driver and his pal were noisily chatting while they removed boxes from the truck, masking the woman’s voice.
“Turn up the gain on the audio,” he said to Linda. “See if you can find the source of the voice.”
The camera turned until they saw Beth’s flaming red hair. Her clothes were filthy, but she was walking normally, and there was no apparent pain on her face even though she had a bandage on her left shoulder.
Salvador Locsin was walking next to her, yanking her by the arm so that she would keep up with him.
“I told you, I’m not going to help you anymore,” Beth said, her voice full of bluster.
“You will if you want any more Typhoon,” Locsin said.
“I don’t care what you do to me.”
“You’ll change your mind in a day or two without your dose.”
They entered the same building where the food was being taken and went out of range of the microphone.
“They’ve been making her take that stuff?” Linda said with disgust. “Didn’t Langston Overholt say it’s addictive?”
Juan nodded. “Very. According to the World War Two records, the addiction becomes permanent in just a few days, maybe a week at most. We need to get her out of there as soon as Hidalgo finishes passing or she might be irreversibly hooked on it.”
Then Juan heard one of the men inside the truck say Beth’s name and he held up his hand for quiet again, but the conversation was brief and in Tagalog. The men were silent as they went inside with more boxes.
“Play that back, Linda,” Juan said. “I want to hear them again.”
