Len set the bronze tip of his ash sounding pole against the heavy oak planking of the door and leaned forward with the weight of his sound right shoulder.
The iron hinges didn’t squeal. They had been freshly oiled. That turned on their pivot pins with a low, wet sigh that was swallowed by the underground hum of the pipes. The heavy door swung inward three feet. It showed a low, vaulted chamber cut from the native limestone bedrock.
The air inside Checkpoint Seven was warm. Stiflingly warm compared to the freezing draft of the service trench.
A single heavy copper wall sconce was mounted to the western stonework pier, its curved reflector throwing a broad fan of brilliant, emerald-tinted light across the room. The flame burned with a steady, hissing pressure feed drawn from a small copper storage tank metal tube bolted to the wall. The green light lit up an austere, military outpost: an iron cot with a thin horsehair mattress pushed against the stone, a row of iron tool hooks holding rusty wrenches and pipe clamps. A battered zinc-topped writing desk scarred by ink spills and knife gouges.
In the center of the flat stone slab floor stood the rope winch.
