The Atlas, having received landing clearance via a short radio signal, smoothly descended onto the frozen landing pad before the massive steel gates set into the cliff face. We stepped out into the icy silence, broken only by the hum of the Atlas's engines fading behind us. The air outside was so cold it burned the lungs with the first breath. This place stood in stark contrast to the picture of the dead country we had observed on our way here: the pad was perfectly cleared of snow and debris, spotlights and surveillance cameras stood around the perimeter, and guards in full combat gear and insulated camouflage coats, rifles at the ready, stood watch at the gates—which resembled the entrance to a giant bank vault more than anything else. Above the gates, carved into the granite and dimly lit by electric light, a modest designation glimmered through the frost: "Site R"—the code name of a facility that, before the war, had been the stuff of legends.

  "Raven Rock"—the Western Command Center—was no simple shelter like our modest "Clark Mountain." This was a true underground fortress-city, hewn deep within the mountain's mass. Built at the height of the Cold War as an alternate command post for the Pentagon and the government, it had managed to survive the catastrophe intact. Here, under hundreds of meters of rock, communication systems, food supplies, and, most importantly, the structure of power had been preserved. That very power which, I had thought, vanished with the first explosions.

  Zhang and I, barely able to move our numb legs, approached the checkpoint—a small concrete booth by the gates. An officer in arctic camouflage emerged; his breath billowed in thick vapor, immediately settling as frost on his collar.

  "Professor Ackerman. Summoned by President Dixon." My words froze in the air as an icy cloud and slowly dissipated.

  Without a word, the officer examined us carefully, checking against the image on the tablet in his hand. Then he nodded and gestured for us to enter the booth, where it was only marginally warmer than outside. The only heating was a weak stream of warm air from a vent, creating an illusion of comfort. He removed a thick glove, swiped an access card through a reader, then entered a long code on a panel. A heavy, low hum of electric motors sounded, and the massive steel panels began to slowly part, revealing a narrow tunnel, beyond which lay another barrier—a sealed airlock chamber.

  We entered the tunnel. The gates closed behind us with a dull thud, sealing out the external cold and leaving us in a confined space lit only by dim emergency lights. Daylight lamps flickered on, and a hissing began—pressure equalizing and purified, heated air being pumped in. I inhaled with pleasure—it smelled slightly metallic, but was warm and dry.

  When the inner airlock door opened, a completely different world lay before us.

  I had, of course, expected to see a corridor. Perhaps a long one, perhaps a wide one. But what opened before me, I couldn't bring myself to call a corridor. It was a street. A genuine underground street, laid out between buildings. Genuine multi-story buildings, constructed right inside the mountain.

  Several separate three-story structures of steel and concrete—massive, squat, windowless, but with clear rows of steel doors and ventilation grilles. They stood at some distance from one another, and between them wound actual roadways—wide, with white lane markings painted on. So wide they could accommodate trucks and even army buses. The roads were slightly curved—as far as I knew, this was a special design to dissipate shockwaves in case of a direct hit. Now, the thought of such a design seemed almost absurd: we were already under a hundred meters of granite.

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  Along the buildings, right against the walls, ran neat parking areas filled with rows of small electric carts. Between the structures, freight elevators capable of lifting equipment to upper levels were visible, along with ventilation shafts several meters in diameter—veritable throats from which came a constant, faint draft of artificially purified air.

  Somewhere deep beneath us, in the very bowels of the complex, two independent power plants hummed dully, each occupying its own separate engine room—primary and backup. Their hum mixed with the smell of machine oil and ozone from countless air purification systems.

  Not so long ago at the "Sigma-7" base, though it now seemed like another life, we had occasionally received contracts to design some of the complex's systems, and I possessed some information about it. I knew that beneath these buildings, kilometers of water reservoirs had been constructed, and numerous warehouses with food supplies designed to last for many years. Powered by the massive power plants, server rooms under AI control operated continuously, strictly supervised by humans, managing communication systems in real time, connecting this underground city to all critically important facilities. And now, to whatever remained of the outside world. Hundreds of thousands of square meters of space, designed for tens of thousands of people from the highest echelons of power in case of a full-scale crisis. This city was maintained by numerous personnel—technicians, communications specialists, and numerous security services.

  Near the entrance, a security post was set up—an armored counter with bulletproof glass, behind which sat an officer, and behind him, several soldiers in full armament lounged casually on chairs. They had their jackets unzipped—it was warm here, and, more importantly, safe. The officer, again checking our names and learning the purpose of our visit, ordered two soldiers to escort us to a small electric cart parked against the wall.

  Accompanied by the silent soldiers, we rode for about half an hour through this underground city. Our cart wound along wide roadways, skirting buildings, diving into short tunnels connecting different sectors. Along the way, we passed endless branches with clear markings: "Army Headquarters," "Navy Command Center," "Communications," "Fuel Depot," "Medical Block." Some sectors had no markings at all—just concrete walls and reinforced security at the entrance, from which came the muffled hum of server rooms and the smell of hot metal and plastic. Each such unnamed sector was guarded by a checkpoint with an officer and a platoon of soldiers. Everything was clean, functional, devoid of any decoration—a typical military aesthetic where every detail served a single purpose.

  We passed by a cafeteria—from its open doors, people in various uniforms streamed continuously: soldiers and officers, engineers, technicians, and civilian officials. From the cafeteria wafted something edible and delicious. We passed a medical station with a red cross, and along the way we even encountered a small chapel and a gymnasium, from which came the dull thud of a ball. Life here went on in its own rhythm, as if there were no ash and devastation on the surface.

  At some point, I even noticed a familiar Starbucks logo—war is war, but coffee is on schedule.

  Finally, the cart stopped at a separate entrance deep within the complex. Parking the cart in a small lot, we went inside. Here was a reception area, guarded by several armed security posts behind bulletproof glass. Rows of leather sofas for visitors lined the walls, and there was a duty officer's counter with a computer terminal. The walls were paneled with light oak, and the floor was covered with practical gray ceramic tiles. The light was soft and abundant, not oppressing us with its sterility as in the rest of the complex. After the external devastation and ash, this orderliness and cleanliness seemed almost unreal, like a theatrical set.

  The duty officer, a man with a tired but vigilant face and an unnaturally straight back, looked up at us.

  "Purpose of your visit?" His voice was flat, emotionless, like a well-tuned automaton.

  "Professor Ackerman. And astronaut Zhang Wei. Summoned by President Dixon." I automatically recited the phrase I had memorized throughout the day, feeling irritation at its repetition.

  The officer nodded and asked his assistant—a woman in the same uniform—to verify the names. She sat at the computer terminal, typing with professional speed.

  "Ork Ackerman?" she repeated, running her finger across the screen without looking away from the monitor.

  I confirmed with a nod. She typed something quickly, exchanged a barely perceptible glance with the officer—then tilted a small monitor on a flexible stand with a built-in camera towards me. The screen flickered, and a face appeared.

  I recognized him immediately, though I had only seen him in official internet photos and rare televised addresses. President Dixon looked aged and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken. But his gaze—steely, unwavering, unyielding—was the same as in his pre-war speeches when he promised the people protection and prosperity.

  "Escort him in," came his hoarse but authoritative voice. "I am waiting."