But the real masterpiece, for when the shit really hit the fan, was all underground, inside the converted silo, which was now fourteen floors of scrupulously conceived subterranean living space.
Thom’s car was in the lead and pulled up to the gatehouse, where they were met by ex-Major Jimmy Rutland, casually dressed in fatigues, Kevlar vest, and wraparound sunglasses, with a semiautomatic weapon slung across his chest. Ex-Major Jimmy made no move for Thom’s door. He knew to let the man open it himself and get out. Thom bounced out of the car and came forward to address Jimmy with a grim we’re-all-men-of-the-world expression.
“Jimmy.”
“Mr. Banning. Good to see you, sir. Sorry for the circumstances.” Jimmy wasn’t sorry at all. Jimmy had been born for this day; he’d enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, trained his way up through anti-terrorism security forces in the marines, and was making serious money in the private sector when Thom had recruited him.
“How’s it looking?” Thom asked.
“Clear and fine, sir. Glad you all made it OK.”
Thom turned and gestured to the others, in the cars behind him, that it was OK to get out. They did, the kids spilling out of both cars and taking off across the dirt road, which wasn’t actually dirt at all but DryCrete, a weatherproof material made to look and feel like an unused country highway. The kids didn’t care. They raced up the hill and rolled down its lush grass.
Jimmy frowned, noticing Beth and her daughter, and looked down at a clipboard on the stand in front of him, scanning the list of names there. “Do we have a change in the guest list?”
“We do. I chose to include some friends. Let’s treat them well.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Who else is here?”
“All active guards reported within an hour of your call. Dr. Bordwell lives in Provo, so he was one of the first resident staff to arrive.” He gestured to the nearby grassy slope, where a middle-aged man in khakis and an untucked blue shirt sat staring out at the desolate landscape. Jimmy leaned in and lowered his voice, for Thom’s ears only. “Dr. B. could use a little bit of a charm offensive. I think we’re dealing with some shell shock.”
Thom frowned and glanced over at the figure sitting on the grass, who did indeed look bereft.
“What’s the matter?” Thom asked. “Our dentist didn’t like his room?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. Situation’s got everybody on tilt. He’ll settle in.” He continued. “We’ve had contact from nearly all the other contract hires, in one form or another. Dr. Rahman is ten minutes behind you, and the Friedmans and Ms. Hyland should be touching down at Provo as we speak. The others are in various phases of transit. All in all, everybody seems to have mobilized on the double.”
Thom nodded. Marques, he noticed, had gotten out of the car and joined them, overhearing that last part. Thom glanced at him, annoyed all over again, and looked back to Jimmy. “Please get our bags into the main house and show our guests to, let’s see, I’m thinking number nine. That sound good?”
“Sounds like a good plan today, sir, and that is the best kind of plan.” Jimmy turned to Marques. “I’ll be back in five”—for some reason he felt the need to hold up a gloved hand, fingers spread to denote the exact number of minutes he was talking about—“and will show you to your quarters.”
With that, he spun on his bootheel and headed for the gatehouse. Marques turned back to Thom, confused. “Exactly how many people are going to be living here?”
“Exactly as many as are necessary for the successful long-term functioning of a community. We have a dentist, an internist, two chefs, a trainer, two schoolteachers, a physical therapist, a yoga instructor, an agriculturalist, a spiritualist, and you, an airline pilot. They should all be here by dark. What can Beth do?”
“Sorry?”
“For a living, what does she do? Everybody has to contribute.”
“Oh, right. She’s a real estate broker.”
Thom stared at him for a long moment. “I’ll keep that in mind if we sell.” He turned and started walking toward the big house, gesturing to the entrance to the silo itself. “Jimmy will show you to your place. Ask him to see the gym, the movie theatre, the hydroponics, the works. He likes to give the tour. I think you’ll see you bet on the right pony.”
He walked away, up the hill, and Marques looked around. The scale of the place, the degree of planning and building, the armed militia guards, the imposing landscape—he’d known Thom was rich, and he thought he knew what that meant, but build-your-own-society rich? That had never occurred to him.