The health department didn't find anything. For residents around Titan site 2B, it seems that drinking water is safe.
Just don't drink the water inside the complex.
Jay Bevenour
Jared Jacang Maher
Going down: Commander Chainsaw (from left),
Subcommander Stretch, The Newbie and agents
Borland and Geiger prepare to descend into the Titan
1 Missile base and explore its more than 2,500 feet of
tunnels.
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Once the Subciety members reach the bottom of the four levels, they wander about. It is mostly empty save for some scraps of metal. Pointing his flashlight down into a small, rectangular opening, Stretch sees bright-red water pooled below the floor. It is frozen in a sort of stasis, and hunks of rust float like tangerine slices suspended in cherry Jell-O. Everyone decides it is probably best to go up a level before taking a smoke break.
Taking turns holding the ladder, the crew makes it up to the second level. The commander takes off his helmet, which boasts a headlamp the size of a dinner plate -- "an unholy blending of a hardhat, a motorcycle battery and a million-candlepower spotlight" -- and props it on a large pipe. Their backs are tired; it feels good to rest and get those sweaty respirators off. Smokes are passed around. Their voices and laughter rebound in a blunt echo through the corridors.
"No talking about Star Trek," the Commander says. "Discussion of Star Trek is banned from all expeditions."
Agent Borland smiles -- but with a hint of sadness.
"Not that there's anything wrong with Star Trek," the Commander adds quickly, to fill the silence. "It's just, like, given the context and all, it seems just a bit too nerdish."
This seems acceptable to the rest of the crew, and for now, mutiny is averted.
Though the Commander mostly makes decisions unilaterally, he posts questions that concern the group on the Subciety Web site for a vote. For example, a motion that would grant the Supreme Commander the right to "have his way with all the wives or girlfriends of all Subciety members" was summarily voted down. In another motion, however, the Supreme Commander was granted the authority to create "official" Subciety logos and merchandise. And now the Commander is pleased to say that at www.cafepress.com, fashionable explorers can order a Subciety T-shirt ($16), golf shirt (sale, $17), Frisbee ($8.50), mug ($13) or license-plate frame ($12).
Aside from the Commander, no one has bought anything yet.
"He's put a lot of time and energy into it all, so if he wants to call himself Supreme Commander, I could care less," Stretch says. "It's like grown adults playing army, pretty much. It's just a fun thing to do. When you're bored at work, if you've got nothing better to do, you can plan your next expedition."
When pressed, however, the Commander shies away from his role as a central figure. "I've kind of become the leader only because I've been the biggest flag-waver, and I bug people to go. That, and I'm an egotistical fuck who hates standing around while people dicker about what to do," he says. "Subciety is really about the group."
The six explorers stand in a half circle, smoking silently. The air is thick and wet. The radiance from the Commander's superlight seems to have gotten brighter somehow. Cast on the wall, their shadows line up in formation -- no different, perhaps, from the ones men shed here forty years ago. The Commander smirks. There seems to be something funny about all of this.
"All right, let's go," he says.
Cigarettes are extinguished. Stretch asks if the Commander has an extra motorcycle battery that he can put on his Honda. "Indeed," says the Commander.
"How about a trade?"
"Maybe," the Commander says. "What for?"
"A server case."
The Commander thinks for a moment and then puts on his helmet and walks toward the ladder. He turns with a grin: "Is it ATX?"
