Ground Zero td-84 Read online

  They tried everything. Pumping. Sealing up and abandoning the lower six floors. But still the water seeped in.

  Swindell ordered a construction slowdown while he scrambled to find a way out of the literal sandtrap he had dug himself into.

  "It can't get any worse," Swindell told his secretary after his return from La Plomo, Missouri.

  "What is it, Con honey?" asked Constance Payne, whose willingness to get down on the rug and screw her boss remained her chief qualification for the job, even after ten years with Swindell Properties. She wore her hair too red and her sweater too tight.

  Swindell looked out from his Palm Springs condo window. A field of stars spilled across the desert night sky.

  "You should have seen that town, baby. As sweet a collection of garrisons and colonials as you ever saw in one spot. Just basking in the sun. Untenanted, fully applianced, with all the sewer, water, and electrical lines a growin' community could ask for. And no one wantin' any part of it because of a little spilt nerve gas."

  "Nobody would sell?"

  "Naw, I got a few nibbles. But it's soon soon for the grievin' families. I figure I can wait 'em out until they realize they gotta sell to me. But that ain't what I'm talking about. The fool Army came along and tried to decontaminate the whole shebang."

  "Is that bad?"

  "It is when the decontaminant makes carbolic acid look like Kool-Aid. They started hosing a place down-a sweet little fixer-upper-and the paint just bubbled up and started smoking. Next thing you know, it up and caught fire. Then it exploded. Three million dollars' worth of housing went up in a flash. I lit out right then, it turned my stomach so bad."

  Constance Payne pulled her boss down onto her generous lap. "Oh, poor baby," she cooed, playing with his hair.

  "Not only that, but I lost Horace."

  Her red mouth made a surprised circle. "What happened to Horace?"

  "Ingrate up and quit on me."

  "That Horace! But you can get another chauffeur."

  "Not like Horace. I could trust him. I tell you, baby if things don't turn around soon, the nineties are gonna be a misery."

  "Oh, I was hoping you'd be in a good mood when you got back."

  "Well, I'm not. So there."

  " 'Cause we got another problem."

  Swindell brightened. "More paternity suits?" he asked eagerly.

  "No, those have kinda settled down."

  Swindell's bright smile darkened. "What the hell you been doing all the livelong day, your nails? If we ever gonna get back on our feet, Connie, you gotta do your part."

  "I have been. Will you settle down and listen? The Condome is being overrun, or something. The site crew just called it in."

  "By who? The bankers?"

  "They call themselves Dirt First!!"

  "Them mangy curs!" Swindell exploded. "I saw a pack of them back in Missouri. You could smell 'em coming for miles around. What do they want with my Condome?"

  "They say you're desecrating the natural habitat of the desert scorpion."

  Swindell jumped up so fast his pockets disgorged business cards Velcroed to condom packets.

  "Scorpions!" he shouted. "Don't they know scorpions are venomous varmints?"

  "I don't think they do. They're painting graffiti on the dome and everything. Should I call your pilot?"

  Swindell nodded angrily. "Damn. This is fixin' to be a terrible decade for real estate. I can feel it in my bones."

  Chapter 13

  Woody Robbins was in charge of security at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, an experimental research facility connected with the University of California, and located east of San Francisco.

  Even after the cold war had been declared officially over, America's nuclear deterrent force required constant maintenance. East-West tensions may have been reduced to a lulling hum, but the world remained full of nuclear weapons, and where nuclear technology was concerned, Woody Robbins never let down his guard.

  Unfortunately, he had just the night shift. The day shift security staff seemed to think that the rare isotopes and spent uranium fuel pellets were kept in secure lead storage containers for controlled access, not for theft protection.

  Nuclear material-everything from hair-fine wiring to klystron triggers-was oozing from the brick pores of Lawrence Livermore like sweat from a rotisserie pig.

  Tonight Woody Robbins sat at his desk flipping through duty reports and occasionally glancing at a wall-mounted bank of closed-circuit screens that were wired to strategically placed security cameras. But mostly to the portable set on his desk tuned to a Lakers game. Woody was a stickler for security, but the Lakers were important too. Besides, it was a slow night.

  Had Woody Robbins happened to tune into the local news instead of a basketball game, he would not have made the mistake of admitting Sky Bluel-who was known to him as a trustworthy UCLA physics major-to the facility. Woody liked Sky, even if she did dress as if the calendar had froze at the Summer of Love.

  The ten-o'clock news was showing a clip of Sky Bluel togged out in antique hippie clothes, showing off a tactical neutron bomb whose parts had, with the exception of the breadboard mount-which was an Ace Hardware Washington's Birthday special-come out of Lawrence Livermore, a piece here and a piece there.

  But Woody was oblivious of that. The Lakers were down 13 to the Knicks' 61, and it coming on half-time. Woody was worried.

  His worries shifted into high gear and an entirely different venue when a microwave-relay van slid up to the gate and the driver accosted the hapless gate guard.

  A beeping light under monitor number one brought this unwelcome intrusion to Woody Bobbins' attention. He peered past his propped-up feet to the monitor. One look, and all thought of the Lakers fled his mind.

  The gate guard was saying something about cameras not being allowed on the grounds except by prior application.

  A cameraman responded by shoving a videocam into his face. Its harsh light forced him to turn away.

  And a voice that Woody recognized but could not immediately place demanded to see the head of security.

  "Tell him Twenty-four Hours is here to inspect his security," intoned the half-familiar baritone voice.

  "Oh, Christ," Woody Robbins moaned. "Don Cooder."

  He hurried out of his cubicle office without checking the latest score.

  Moments later Woody Robbins stood face-to-face with Don Cooder. They stood outside the gate.

  "Take your ambush journalism and shove it," Woody said huffily. "I don't answer to you or your network."

  "Is that a refusal?" Cooder asked in a threatening tone.

  "No," Woody said, showing his teeth in an icily polite smile, "it's an official request for you to go through proper channels."

  "Are you aware, Mr .... What is your name?"

  "Woody," he admitted. "Woody-"

  "Are you aware, Mr. Woody, that nuclear materials have been leaking from this facility for months now?"

  "I've heard it alleged."

  "And what is the source of your knowledge of these events?"

  "The guy who's been clobbering you in the ratings, Peter Jennings," Woody returned coolly.

  "We'll edit that out later," Cooder mumbled to his cameraman. "Now, about these deadly thefts," he pressed. "That's an allegation my staff is looking into," Woody said. "I won't advertise an ongoing investigation and risk drying up valuable sources of information."

  "You mean cover up for the criminal culprits," snapped Cooder, whose on-air style of speaking was akin to a talking books tabloid.

  "There is no cover-up," Woody said testily.

  Don Cooder turned to the camera, lifting the microphone to his rugged face.

  "When confronted with the startling allegation of Lawrence Livermore materials being used to build a neutron bomb," he intoned seriously, "plant security official Woody hotly denied these charges and proclaimed his innocence."

  "Wait a minute! I did not proclaim my innocence!"

  Cooder whirled on
cue. The mike leapt for Woody Robbins' open mouth like a striking cobra.

  "Is that an admission of guilt?" Cooder said eagerly.

  "It damn well is not!"

  "If you're innocent, you'll let us inspect the premises on behalf of the American taxpapers, now fearful of being nuked by their own tax dollars at work."

  "Shove that tax-scare crap," Woody lashed out. "I know your game, Mr. Dead-Last-in-the-Ratings."

  Woody waited for the retort that never came. But Don Cooder was for once speechless. His mouth hung as slack as a carp on a hook.

  Sky Bluel selected that moment to approach the gate.

  Woody was so surprised to see her that he too was struck speechless. But only for a moment.

  "Good evening, Miss Bluel," he said in a forced-polite voice.

  "I need to do some after-hours work," Sky Bluel said tightly, eyeing Don Cooder uncertainly. "Is it okay?"

  Woody smiled. "Always."

  Sky Bluel was passed with a longer-than-usual glance at her plant security card, but she was passed.

  "Where were we?" Don Cooder asked, suddenly mollified.

  Woody noted the appreciative gleam in his eye. The jerk, he thought, he's old enough to be her damn father.

  Sky Bluel was passed at the main desk, as well. She hurried to the lab where she did her work with neutron-bombardment applications. But she lingered there only a moment.

  Beyond the lab was a nuclear storage area. Donning a radiation-proof coverall suit, she entered through the double doors, which responded to her magnetic passcard.

  It was the work of a few minutes to acquire a spherical beryllium-oxide tamper and a corresponding amount of tritium isotope and gingerly place them into a lead-lined carrying container.

  Sky grinned. Jane Fonda would be so proud, if she only knew. Maybe they would end up on Letterman together.

  Woody Robbins thought he was finally getting through to Don Cooder.

  "You say you really have no idea," Cooder was saying. "Let me be sure I have this straight, now. Really no idea what, if anything, in the way of nuclear materials, has been stolen-I mean allegedly stolen-from Lawrence Livermore?"

  "That's right," Woody said, relaxing slightly, becoming aware of the tap-tap of a woman's booted feet coming up behind him. "It's a very involved inventory process complicated by the fact that nuclear materials as they are processed are used up. They diminish. Separating use loss from shrinkage is involved. Excuse me," he added, turning toward the footsteps.

  Don Cooder's darkly handsome black Irish face fell into a glower.

  "Shrinkage!" he exploded, drowning out all other sounds. "Dangerous fusion material!"

  "Fission, not fusion," Woody corrected tightly. "We don't do fusion at Lawrence Livermore."

  "-dangerous fissionable materials are possibly in the hands of rabid terrorists and you have the gall to call it shrinkage?" Cooder finished hotly. "Nukes are not mere white goods and this isn't a department store, Mr. Woody!"

  "Listen, you have no right making these irresponsible allegations!" Woody retorted. "Now, for the last time, either get out, get clearance to enter lawfully, or I'll have to take steps. We can't leave this gate open like this."

  "Afraid something will slip through under your very nose?" asked Don Cooder as the videocam whirred on, and a dark figure lugged a heavy satchel way down the road.

  "No!" Woody said, storming off, fists bunched in white-knuckled anger.

  The video camera lingered on him as he secured the gate.

  Woody endured the annoying video light until it finally winked out. The news crew boarded the van. Then the van backed away with all the agile grace of a retreating rhinoceros.

  As Woody stormed back to his cubicle office, needing a change of shirt, a memory tickled the back of his mind.

  What was it now? he wondered. Something he was about to do.

  The Lakers game was still under way when he got back. The score was now 89 to 26, Lakers trailing. He settled in behind his battle-scarred desk.

  The memory came back. Who was the woman who had slipped by the gate when he was arguing with that damned Cooder?

  Then he remembered Sky Bluel. "Had to be her," he muttered, relaxing. "Nice kid." The future was brighter with gals like her coming out of UCLA. Too bad she was stuck in the past like that.

  Sky Bluel walked and walked as she had been instructed, the heavy lead carrying container dragging her right arm practically out of its socket. She glanced over her shoulder several times, feeling exhilarated. It was just like the sixties, which she thought she could dimly remember, having been born in November 1969.

  All her life, Sky Bluel had listened to her parents' tales of the sixties. It made her feel inadequate, as if she were born a generation too late. Her consciousness level was high, but wasted. There was so little to protest against. And almost no one to do it with.

  But when her graduate work brought her to Lawrence Livermore, Sky was horrified to discover how lax the facility was. At last she had found a cause. Disarmament. It was an old cause, true, but with a fresh new twist.

  People had grown apathetic. Her own generation was hopelessly yuppified. But Sky would show them that disarmament was more important than ever. Especially with all the crazy terrorists troubling the world.

  And so she had built her own neutron bomb. She had selected the La Plomo incident as the grand backdrop against which she would expose the horrible truth that would galvanize her generation into the new antinuclear movement: unnuking.

  Yes, it had gone awry, but Don Cooder had showed her a better way to attack the problem.

  And she had done it. She now carried the necessary tritium isotope. She knew she would succeed. Had she not worn her mother's very own love beads, actually bought at Woodstock? And were these not the very same blue jeans her father had worn when he tried to levitate the Pentagon in 1973 to protest the unjust Vietnam war?

  Who could fail with such a heritage?

  The approaching headlights brought her worried face back again.

  She released a gleeful squeal of delight. It was the network van. Sky recognized the network fisheye symbol.

  "Hop in," said Don Cooder, rolling back the side sliding door.

  He took the container. Sky climbed in. And the van roared off.

  "We did it! We did it!" she said excitedly. "This is so far out its absolutely the most."

  "This is just the groovy beginning," said Don Cooder proudly. He preened himself in a mirror in preparation for doing a quick two-shot on the successful liberation of unsecured nuclear material.

  The comb got stuck in his oversprayed hair. It refused to budge. He pulled harder. He grunted like a woman in labor.

  "Oh, my God," Sky cried in horror. "Won't it come loose?"

  "Not to worry," Cooder said manfully. "Occupational hazard. I know exactly what to do."

  And using a pair of wire cutters, he snipped the comb to pieces, leaving only a small square section of caught teeth.

  "Are you going to just leave it there?" Sky asked as Cooder patted down the affected area.

  "It's in the back of the head," Cooder explained. "No one ever sees the back of an anchor's head. I'll have it professionally removed later. The network has special technicians on staff for just this kind of thing."

  He lifted the microphone as the video cameraman maneuvered around to shoot Cooder over Sky's shoulder.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  Sky Bluel swallowed. She thought she was ready, ready for anything. But this was getting truly weird. She hated weird. Weird wasn't where it was at.

  Chapter 14

  The flight from San Francisco to the California resort town of Palm Springs was relatively short. Barely an hour. But to Remo Williams it was as interminable as a death.

  First, it was the silence. Technically, they were not on the job, so Chiun felt it acceptable to lapse into one of his moody silences again, and nothing Remo said could bring him out of it.

  The cabin temperature see
med chillier than normal to Remo, who had changed into a fresh T-shirt en route to the airport.

  "Does this have anything to do with the Mongols?" Remo ventured. "I did kinda show you up during our little treasure hunt in China."

  Chiun looked out upon the night lights passing below with opaque regard.

  "I'll take that as a no," Remo said. "Whatever I did, I must have done it after that."

  Chiun twitched slightly.

  Remo made a mental note that he was getting warmer.

  "I know I was on my best behavior at the village," he added, "so that can't be it."

  The twitch came again, more pronounced.

  Hot, Remo thought. I'm definitely hot.

  His mind went back to the weeks they had spent in the village of Sinanju. On the whole it had been a much less tumultuous stay than any in the past. They had arrived with hundreds of Mongols bearing the treasure of Genghis Khan. This was divided between the House of Sinanju and the Golden Horde with great ceremony. Remo thought to himself that Chiun had clipped the Mongols out of the best artifacts, but had said nothing. Treasure didn't excite him. The treasure trove had been borne away at the end of the first week. Half the Mongols had stayed to continue the celebration. Most were too drunk from quaffing fermented goat's milk and wine to ride anyway. Day by day they had drifted away until only a core group had remained. Chiun had not begun ignoring him until after they finally departed, Remo recalled.

  But he could remember nothing he had said or done since that time that might have offended the Master of Sinanju. Then he recalled Chiun's remark made back in Rye that it was something he had not done. Remo frowned. What had he not done? The infinite possibilities staggered him.

  Remo decided to take another tack.

  "Tell me a story, Little Father."

  "I am not speaking with you presently," Chiun said coldly.

  "I'm not looking for conversation," Remo said with forced good nature. "I meant a legend. You know, a good old-fashioned Sinanju legend, like you used to tell me in the old days. You've been telling me fewer and fewer legends these days."

  "Legends are for the educable," Chiun snapped.

  "Aw, come on. Just one. A short one. Maybe something that covers the mission."

  "I do not know of any such legend. In the history of Sinanju we have never dealt with neutral booms or mud people or bathers in urine."