Just as Nick had estimated during his initial approach, the living quarters at the summit of the tower were surprisingly spacious.
With a straightforward renovation, partitioning the space into a functional two-bedroom suite wouldn’t present much of a challenge.
A recessed corner near the stone fireplace served as a makeshift kitchen, cluttered with a dusty array of pots, pans, and heavy iron skillets.
Given JD’s British military background, the lack of culinary finesse was hardly surprising.
A thick wooden cutting board was mounted atop an iron frame to serve as a prep counter.
Laid out across the wood were a handful of stunted carrots and fresh parsley, looking slightly underdeveloped but freshly harvested from the garden out back.
JD stood over the board, using a heavy tactical knife to chop the carrots with a rhythmic thud…
thud…
thud…
as he resumed the briefing.
“In short, you don’t need to concern yourself with the East Tower.
Just focus entirely on your side of the gorge.
That said, I caught some movement across the gap earlier this morning—looks like they’re conducting their annual rotation as well.”
JD swept the chopped vegetables off the board and pivoted to the daily operational requirements for the coming year.
Every morning, the assigned guardian was required to patrol a perimeter path along the western rim, inspecting a series of automated Gatling CIWS emplacements positioned every six hundred meters.
When barrel wear or mechanical faults occurred, parts had to be swapped out immediately, and spent ammunition belts replaced.
It was the most physically demanding aspect of the assignment.
With no motorized transport permitted along the narrow ridge paths, all heavy ordnance for the twelve automated defense turrets had to be hauled manually using a heavy-duty handcart.
Secondary duties included inspecting and repairing the perimeter wire, resetting the suspended trip-wire mines, and servicing the high-powered satellite jamming arrays—affectionately dubbed “the big ears”—installed along the high ridge.
Aside from those daily tasks, any remaining time was left to the guardian’s discretion.
Once every thirty days, a brief status report was to be transmitted via encrypted shortwave radio.
Nick began to grasp the true purpose of the intensive technical training he had received over the past three months.
“Sounds less like tactical reconnaissance and more like being a glorified maintenance engineer.”
“I appreciate a man who catches on quickly,” JD said, looking visibly relieved.
He plated two seared steaks alongside the sautéed carrots and parsley, carrying the dishes toward the open observation deck facing the canyon.
The reinforced roof of the watchtower consisted of solid poured concrete over three meters thick—a level of structural reinforcement capable of taking a direct hit from a five-hundred-kilogram aerial bomb.
Beneath the overhanging ceiling, the observation terrace extended five meters outward over the abyss.
Dual heavy weapon mounts were installed on the left and right flanks, fitted with classic M2HB .50-caliber heavy machine guns.
Crates of 12.7x99mm linked ammunition were stacked along the perimeter wall, looking as though the tower was prepared at a moment’s notice to trade fire with the opposite ridge.
Noticing Nick staring at the heavy machine guns, he reached out and pressed a toggle switch mounted on the concrete wall.
The dual hydraulic mounts hummed to life, lifting the M2HBs into an active standby position.
Nick stepped up to the left mount, resting his boots on the foot pedals to check the traverse.
His brow furrowed slightly.
The vertical elevation was capped at less than fifteen degrees upward, while the depression angle dropped over seventy-five degrees downward.
The geometry made it clear: these guns weren’t designed for anti-air defense or cross-canyon engagements.
They were mounted to sweep the steep rock face directly below the tower.
“What’s down there?” Nick asked, glancing into the fog-choked gorge where the valley floor remained completely hidden.
“Demons from the pit?”
JD gestured toward a folding chair, signaling for him to sit.
“You’ve likely realized this place has some history behind it.
The core foundations date back to the end of the Second World War and the opening years of the Cold War.
What I’m about to tell you falls under top-secret classification.”
He pointed toward two faded flags—one British Union Jack, one American Stars and Stripes—draped against the far concrete wall.
“Decades ago, the leadership of three major Eastern and Western powers signed a clandestine pact, establishing a joint defensive alliance to ensure the existence of this canyon remained suppressed from the global public.
Every year, each side rotates a single operative—one managing the eastern rim, one managing the west.”
A tri-lateral agreement between Washington, London, and Moscow, operating completely outside the United Nations Security Council, Nick realized.
Given the historical context, the British involvement made complete sense.
“Since the charter was established, this deployment has outlasted nine Soviet and Russian leaders, thirteen American presidents, and two British monarchs,” JD continued.
“Yet theoretically, outside of the original signatories—and whoever inherited the file after the Soviet collapse—virtually no high-level political figures are even aware this station exists.”
Nick processed the information in silence.
So outside of FDR, Stalin, Putin, and the British crown, no mainstream politicians even know this place is here.
A strange sense of clarity settled over him.
The bizarre, highly classified setup aligned directly with the system directive issued by the golden ticket.
Whatever threatened the world in this narrative was sealed right inside the gorge beneath his feet.
Maintaining a calm exterior, Nick cut a piece of the seared steak and took a bite.
He froze mid-chew, forcing himself to swallow out of politeness while silently swearing never to trust British wilderness cuisine again.
“What exactly is living at the bottom of the canyon?”
JD’s expression darkened.
Reaching into his tactical vest, he pulled out a specialized training grenade, twisted the mechanical fuse to a short delay, and tossed it over the edge of the observation deck into the fog below.
He brought his index finger to his lips, signaling for absolute silence.
Ten seconds later, a faint, muffled thump echoed up from the depths.
Instantly, a chorus of horrific, unnatural roars tore through the canyon.
The shrieks overlapped in violent, echoing waves—a sound so raw and guttural it belonged in a nightmare.
By now, dusk had settled over the mountains, and the valley fog had thickened into a dense gray blanket.
Even knowing he couldn’t see through the gloom, Nick involuntarily stood up, leaning over the stone railing to stare into the dark abyss below.
The terrifying shrieks continued for several minutes before slowly ebbing away into the quiet rustle of the wind.
Nick turned back toward the table.
JD remained seated, a strange, solemn smirk resting on his face.
“We call the things down there the ‘Hollow Men,'” JD said softly.
“No one knows their origin, and I don’t even know who coined the term.”
He pointed toward an old, yellowed photograph framed on the interior wall.
The portrait depicted a mid-century British Army officer in a WWII service uniform.
The brass plate beneath read: The First Guardian, Captain Bradford Shaw.
“Supposedly, Captain Shaw gave them the name back in the late 1940s, and it stuck,” JD said.
“According to the logs passed down through generations of guardians, right after the war ended, the joint command sent three full cavalry battalions—over twenty-four hundred men—down into the gorge to clear the nest.”
JD paused, letting his words hang in the cool night air.
“Not a single soldier came back out.”
JD clearly possessed a dramatic flare for storytelling; his quiet, measured delivery made the hair on the back of Nick’s neck stand up.
“Why not just saturate the valley?” Nick asked, frowning.
“Thermobarics, heavy artillery, high-yield incendiaries?”
JD shrugged, staring out into the dark fog.
“No one knows.
Perhaps the command feared an orbital or high-yield bombardment would breach whatever natural containment keeps them trapped down there.
“As far as I’m concerned, this canyon is a crack in the earth leading straight to hell—and we’re just the guard dogs sitting on the gate.”