Ground Zero (The X-Files) (14 page)
A seething sea of white-hot luminescence boiled in a suspended pool against the acoustic tiles, like froth in a pot, swirling with spectral screaming faces. Though blind, he
knew
they were there. They wouldn’t leave him alone. The ghosts of his incinerated people grew more and more restless. They would strike out at their own targets if he refused to offer them a victim of his own choosing. The ghosts had waited so long, and Ryan Kamida could no longer keep them under control.
Walking with the grace and confidence of a sighted man through the familiar offices, he picked up the hand-addressed envelope and left his room, taking it to the mail drop, from which the package would be rushed to an airplane and shipped to the United States. He deemed the expense of overnight mail delivery across the Pacific insignificant. The envelope would be delivered to a particular low-profile but very important official at the Department of Energy headquarters near Washington, D.C.
It was probably already too late to stop Bright Anvil, Kamida supposed, but perhaps this would be enough to prevent the nightmare from occurring again. 119
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Monday, 10:16 A.M.
After an uneventful weekend—for once—Mulder drove back to the Teller Nuclear Research Facility, whistling “California Dreaming.” Scully pretended to heave a long-suffering sigh, as if to say that since he was her partner, she would put up with his odd sense of humor. Mulder smiled at her in appreciation of her tolerance. The condition of the old rancher’s body at the Trinity Site had been so unmistakably similar to that of Dr. Emil Gregory that Scully couldn’t discount some sort of connection. But they had come back to the San Francisco-area nuclear weapons laboratory with more questions than before. They stopped at the guard gate, flashing visitor’s badges and FBI credentials. They needed to talk to the rest of Dr. Gregory’s Bright Anvil team—deputy project head Bear Dooley and the other researchers and engineers. Scully still insisted there
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must be some technical explanation for the deaths, a test of a small yet powerful nuclear device, something that had backfired on Dr. Gregory, something that had been tested out in New Mexico.
That didn’t ring true, though, to Mulder. He thought there must be some reason they hadn’t considered yet, though Scully would hold onto her explanations until she found a better, more logical one.
After they passed through the guard gate, Mulder reached over to unfold the map of the Teller Facility. He traced the access roads with his finger to find the main lab building where Dr. Gregory had died and the temporary barracks offices to which Bear Dooley and the other team members had been relocated.
“Now that you’ve found out some details about Bright Anvil through, uh…” Mulder raised his eyebrows, “shall we say, ‘unofficial means,’ let’s see what Mr. Dooley has to say for himself. Solid information is our best weapon.”
“I just wish we had the information to solve this case,”
Scully said.
“If wishes were horses…” Mulder began.
Scully shuddered, thinking of the equine corpse at the White Sands Missile Range. “I withdraw the comment.”
They arrived at the converted barracks building and left their car in a Government Vehicle Only parking space. This time, Mulder knew to take a paper respirator mask to protect himself from wild asbestos fibers floating in the air. Handing another mask to Scully, he helped her fasten it over her hair. He carefully scrutinized his partner’s new appearance.
“It’s a fashion statement,” he said. “I like it.”
“First dosimeters and now breathing masks,” Scully said.
“This place is a health nut’s paradise.”
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Down the corridor the construction workers had moved the translucent plastic barrier curtains after demolishing another entire section of the wall. A loud generator roared, maintaining negative air pressure in the enclosed work area, supposedly to prevent the lightweight asbestos fibers from drifting past the barricade.
“Down here,” Mulder said, turning right and motioning for Scully to follow. “Bear Dooley’s new office makes my basement at Bureau Headquarters look like Club Med.”
When they reached Dooley’s temporary office, the door stood wide open, despite the racket of crowbars and the generator and shouts from the workmen.
“Excuse me—Mr. Dooley?” Mulder called. “I don’t know how you can work in this environment.”
But when Mulder popped his head inside, the office appeared abandoned. The desk had been cleared, the file drawers taped shut. Framed photos were still stacked in cardboard boxes and various office paraphernalia lay scattered in disarray, as if someone had packed up frantically, leaving unnecessary items behind. Mulder pursed his lips and glanced around.
“Looks like nobody’s home,” Scully said. Suddenly a young redheaded man entered the office. With his glasses, plaid shirt, and pocket stuffed full of pens, he looked like a poster boy for the “nerd’s dress code.” His badge identified him as Victor Ogilvy. Mulder couldn’t tell if the young man was smiling or frowning behind his white breathing mask.
“Are you the Department of Defense people?” Ogilvy asked quickly. “We’ve got the preliminary reports ready, but nothing else I can deliver to you just yet.”
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“We’re looking for Mr. Bear Dooley,” Mulder said. “Can you tell us where he is?”
Behind his round eyeglasses, Victor Ogilvy blinked rapidly.
“Well, that was in the initial briefing. I’m sure of it. He left for San Diego last Thursday morning. The
Dallas
should arrive at the atoll in another day or two. The rest of us are getting all packed up to be flown out.”
“Flown out to where?” Mulder asked.
The question took Ogilvy entirely by surprise. “What do you mean? Are you sure you’re from the Department of Defense?”
Scully stepped forward. “We never said we were, Mister Ogilvy.” She flipped out her badge and ID. “Federal agents. I’m Special Agent Dana Scully, and this is my partner Agent Mulder. We need to ask you a few questions about Bright Anvil and the death of Dr. Gregory…and this test that’s taking place out on an atoll in the Pacific,” she said. Mulder was amazed at how quickly and easily she had put together the details into a rapid, professional-sounding string of inquiries.
Ogilvy’s eyes bulged out so far that they practically bumped the lenses of his glasses. He stumbled over his words. “I…I don’t think I should say any more,” he said.
“It’s classified.”
Mulder noted how intimidated the young man was and decided to press his advantage. “Didn’t you hear what Agent Scully said? We’re with the
FBI
.” He said the words with dire import. “You have to answer our questions.”
“But I could lose my clearance,” Ogilvy said. Mulder shrugged. “One way or the other. Would you like me to start quoting you FBI statutes? How about this one: if you refuse to cooperate with our ongoing investigation, I just might cite you under Statute 43H of the FBI Code.”
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Scully quickly squeezed his arm. “Mulder!”
He shook his head. “Let me handle this, Scully. Victor here doesn’t know what kind of trouble he could get himself into.”
“I…” Victor Ogilvy said, “I think you should talk to our Department of Energy representative. She’s authorized to answer those types of questions. If she gives me the go-ahead, then I can respond. You’ll have no cause to cite me. Honest!”
Mulder sighed. He had just lost this round. “Well, get her on the phone so we can talk to her.”
Ogilvy rummaged around Bear Dooley’s abandoned desk until he found a Teller Nuclear Research Facility phone listing. He nervously paged through it, then punched in the number for Rosabeth Carrera.
Scully leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Statute 43H?”
“Unauthorized Use of the Smoky the Bear Symbol,” Mulder mumbled, smiling sheepishly. “But he doesn’t know that.”
Within moments Rosabeth Carrera was on the phone. Her voice started out rich and sweet, its Hispanic undertones mostly hidden. She sounded polite, helpful. “Good morning, Agent Mulder. I didn’t know you had returned from New Mexico.”
“Seems like a lot has happened over the weekend,” he said.
“Most of Dr. Gregory’s team has disappeared, and we can’t get any answers on what’s happened to them. Since they are quite clearly involved in this case, we’ll need to interview them further—especially now that we’ve uncovered a clear connection between Dr. Emil Gregory and the other victim at White Sands.”
Scully’s eyebrows shot up. Mulder was overstating his case, but Carrera had no way of knowing it.
“Agent Mulder,” Carrera said, her voice a bit 124
GROUND ZERO
crisper now, “Dr. Gregory was working on a very important project for this laboratory and for the United States government. Such projects have milestones and schedules and a great deal of momentum behind them. People in very high political circles have a lot at stake in seeing that the research continues as planned. I’m afraid we can’t call our scientists back on a whim.”
“This is no whim, Ms. Carrera,” Mulder said, growing more formal. “Your main researcher is dead under highly suspicious circumstances, and now another victim has turned up at the White Sands Missile Range, killed by the same means. I think that’s ample reason for proceeding with caution and asking a few more questions before moving on to the next stage. I’d like you to postpone this Bright Anvil test.”
“Bright Anvil? No such test has been announced,” Carrera answered.
“Let’s not play games,” he said. “It wastes valuable telephone time.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Carrera said dismissively.
“Dr. Gregory’s work will go on, as planned.”
Mulder took the challenge. “I can make some calls to Bureau Headquarters, and I’ve got a few connections in the Department of Defense.”
Carrera’s tone was brisk, almost abrupt. “Make whatever phone calls you feel you have to, Agent Mulder. But Dr. Gregory’s test will take place as scheduled. No question about it. The government has many priorities, and I have no doubt that you will find that your murder investigation is rather far down the list compared to the national interests that are at stake.”
After he hung up, Scully said, “From the look on your face, I take it Rosabeth Carrera didn’t bend over backward to offer you her assistance.”
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Mulder sighed. “I’ve had more helpful conversations.”
Victor Ogilvy hovered nervously by the door. “Does that mean I don’t have to answer your questions?”
Mulder shot him a quick glare. “Depends on how badly you want to be on my Christmas card list.”
The young redhead quickly ducked out of sight. Scully put her hands on her hips and turned to face Mulder. “Well then, I guess it’s my turn to ferret out some details,” she said. “Time to check my other source of information.”
126
Stop Nuclear Madness! Headquarters
Monday, 3:31 P.M.
Scully returned to the headquarters of the Berkeley antinuclear protest group, but when she trudged down the halfflight of stairs to the bomb-shelter basement, she found the temporary offices in the sort of chaos that might be expected at a fly-by-night business suddenly afraid of a bust. A group of student volunteers busied themselves removing the posters of Nagasaki victims from the walls, the poignant photographs of homeless Bikini Islanders, the long listing of aboveground atomic bomb tests, and the colorful graphs showing cancer statistics.
Scully stepped through the door and stared at all the movement, the confusion, the shouting. Behind the fabric room dividers, the exhausted photocopier still whirred, working overtime.
Standing on a stepstool, the receptionist, Becka 127
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Thorne, yanked push pins from the wall to release the draped, dot-matrix banner that warned against a second nuclear war. The black woman turned, her dress an even more dizzying riot of colors than her previous voluminous wrap had been, her hair still clumped together in its lumpy, tentacular dreadlocks.
“I’m looking for Miriel Bremen again,” Scully shouted into the chaos. “Is she here?”
Becka undid a last push pin, and half of the paper banner drooped to the floor like a falling streamer of fireworks. She climbed down off the stepstool and wiped her hands on her colorful dress. “You’re that FBI lady, right? Well, Miriel’s not here. As you can see we’re shutting down the office. No more Stop Nuclear Madness!”
“You’re shutting down the office?” Scully asked. “Are you moving to a new location?”
“No. Miriel just up and pulled our lease. We only had a month left in it anyway, but she handed it over to the next group coming in. These office spaces on campus are in great demand, you know.”
Scully tried to understand. “Did your organization lose its funding unexpectedly?”
Becka laughed. “Not in the least. We were probably the healthiest group Berkeley has seen in five years, lots of money dumped in from some corporation in Hawaii. But Miriel just pulled the plug and told us to call the next group on the waiting list. Said she had a change of heart, or something. Guess she became ‘born again’ again, but in another direction this time.”
“What’s moving in here now?” Scully asked, still taken aback by the protester’s sudden disappearance. What could have driven Miriel Bremen to give up the work that had so ignited her passions that she would jettison her career and her security clearance,
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leaving a blot on her employment record that would haunt her for the rest of her working days.
Becka Thorne gestured to the other volunteer workers.
“It’s an environmental activist group,” she said. “I can show you some of their posters—very disturbing. They’re calling attention to increasing levels of environmental pollutants in our groundwater, how toxic chemicals are seeping into every part of our daily lives and causing an avalanche of health problems.”
The receptionist flipped through several large foam-core posters, some with tables that listed organic and toxic chemicals discovered in a sample of everyday tap water. Scully recognized many of the organic substances, but others seemed like the ingredients from a chemistry set. Some of the listed concentrations gave Scully cause for concern, and she wondered if their “random” analysis was reproducible. She flipped to another chart that showed cancer statistics rising year after year—only this time they were blamed on toxic pollutants in the groundwater. The graph looked identical to the one used by Stop Nuclear Madness! that had connected the same increase in cancer to background radiation from nuclear tests in the 1950s. One of the student workers slid the stepstool to the other side of the wall with a loud rattling sound, then climbed up to pluck the remaining push pins. The entire paper banner fell rustling to the floor.