Wounded Earth (24 page)

Lifting the thing off and following the Columbia River north, he radioed the security dispatcher at the Hanford nuclear site.

“Emergency rescue here,” he barked. “We've got a two-car smash-up near the river, just off your northwest boundary. One car's on fire. No time to waste. I'm coming across the site.”

* * *

The Hanford dispatcher thought a moment. There wasn't a lot of security risk in letting a hospital helicopter enter the site's airspace, but it wasn't standard operating procedure. Why was he getting a call from the pilot and not the dispatcher? He decided to be cautious.

“Hanford here. We read you. You may need help. I'm dispatching a copter to rendezvous with you at the point the Columbia crosses our northwestern boundary. Do you read?”

He gestured at the pilot sitting beside him, who bolted to the copter pad. This guy was trained in terrorist response. He could be in his helicopter and at the rendezvous point before the average pilot could get himself in the air.

“Thanks, Hanford, we can use all the help we can get. Out.”

* * *

Buzz felt a surge of hope. He had no idea how many security copters Hanford kept on standby, but their overcautious dispatcher had just sent one out of harm's way. He might actually get on and off the site, set his craft down, and get away alive.

He angled to the west, cutting across the northward bend in the Columbia and heading directly for his target. He could see the Hanford pilot ahead of him, already nearing the Columbia, outside the site boundary. Perfect. He reached his target and hovered over it.

* * *

The dispatcher was watching the two birds fly over and he saw the hospital helicopter angle to the north and slow to a hover. Something didn't smell right. When the hospital's copter swung back towards him, he knew he'd been had. He kicked the wall behind his desk hard, out of sheer frustration, and tried to raise the security pilot by radio. “Hanford One. Come in, Hanford One. Get your ass back here. He's heading for the K-Basins.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He got back on the radio and raised the ground security force at the K-Basins. They could do something, if it wasn't already too late.

“K-Team, come in. Come in, K-Team.”

It took them a moment to answer, then Lester Atkins came on. “Make it quick. We've got an intruder over here.”

The dispatcher felt mild relief. Lester was well-trained and savvy. If anybody could help this situation, it was Lester.

“Damn straight, we've got an intruder. He's on-site under false pretenses. Do anything you can to get him away from those K-Basins. Anything. Got it?”

* * *

Lester didn't bother to reply. He grabbed a weapon and ammunition before heading outside. He would have appreciated some help, but there were only two of them on-duty in the area this evening, and Sam was already sleeping off the effects of his late afternoon drinking binge.

The helicopter was hovering, low, right above the east K-Basin. The left door was hanging open and a wooden box was tipped precariously in its opening. The pilot was trying to simultaneously maneuver the copter and kick the box out the door. The box must have been heavy, because it took several kicks. Lester began shooting about the time the box finally fell free of the helicopter.

* * *

Buzz tried to catch his breath. He gave the box a final kick, then piloted the copter straight up as fast as it would go. He didn't want to be close to the impact when the box hit K-Basin East. Besides, there was an idiot down there shooting at him. This felt too real. Clearly, he should have smoked some more pot. Maybe if he took the helicopter higher, he could catch a breath before he dropped the second box.

Then the box hit. Buzz didn't know what he had expected, but this was louder and bigger. Flames reached up for him and he struggled for control of the copter. The blast had knocked the guard below him flat on his butt, but he was a stubborn bastard. He just sat there and fired.

That did it. He had hit one target. He wasn't about to get so close to the second one. He wanted the second box out of his craft, but he was going to drop it from up here, where he was a little safer. He headed for K-Basin West.

* * *

Lester groaned as he got to his feet. He had bruised just about everything when the blast knocked him to the ground. There were still flames erupting from K-Basin East. He didn't want to think about what that might mean, but it wasn't good. There was some nasty stuff in those basins and this idiot was trying to blast the radioactive crap right out of them. He himself might have already caught enough radiation to glow in the dark, but he wasn't going to let that guy bomb K-Basin West without a fight.

He ran west, spraying bullets skyward. He could see the pilot, kicking at a second box. He stood still, took careful aim, and fired again.

Lester couldn't tell what he hit. Maybe it was the copter, maybe it was the pilot. But the craft bucked and pitched swiftly to the right. The box fell out and the pilot fell after it. The blast blinded him, but he was pretty sure the explosives missed K-Basin West. He collapsed back on the pavement.

A moment later, the helicopter hit, succeeding where the pilot and his bomb had failed. It landed squarely on K-Basin West. The flames were spectacular.

* * *

“So Cynthia's a sitting duck,” J.D. said.

Larabeth had been rummaging through her overloaded bookshelf since she hung up the phone. “Apparently I have failed to get her to safety. So far.”

”I presume you have a plan.”

“This plan is bold. Unfortunately, the boldest part involves you.”

“I'm not surprised. Bold and Foolish should be my middle names. However, I get the feeling you're brewing a big, complicated plan,” he said. “In my professional experience, simple is good. Why don't I just go to Aiken, knock on Cynthia's door, explain things to her, and get her out of there myself?”

“Bad idea. Too risky,” Larabeth said, still pawing through her books and manuals. “I'm sure Babykiller is tapping her phones and having her watched to keep me from doing just that.”

“I've been your bodyguard for a while now. I notice that you're still alive.”

“Not to offend you, but I get the impression Babykiller wants me alive, at least for the moment. He may not have the same plans for Cynthia.” She triumphantly pulled a thick, 3-ring binder off the bookshelf. “I found it. This manual is the key to my plan. That is, if you go along with it. You've already said you're willing to go to Aiken. The question is this: Are you willing to do it my way? Even if it's dangerous?”

“Larabeth, I know I can't care for Cynthia the way you do, but I do care. In a weird way, I watched her grow up. I staked out her Junior-Senior Prom, remember? Besides, I care about you. You and I may argue over the details of this plan, but we will work them out. Do we understand each other?” Larabeth nodded. “Now,” he said, “what is in this book that is so important?”

He took it from her. The cover said
BioHeal Corporate Health and Safety Manual for Operations at the Savannah River Facility
. The table of contents gave a list of the names and signatures of its authors and of the Department of Energy personnel who had approved the document. One of the authors' names was Cynthia Parker.

“Look at that,” he said. “Little Cynthia.”

“Keeping this document up-to-date is ‘little’ Cynthia's job. Your job is to know Chapter 14 backwards and forwards. You need to be at her worksite by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. That's when the whole crew reports to the equipment shack for end-of-the-day decontamination. It's the only time when I know for sure exactly where Cynthia will be. You'll have an hour's leeway if you leave here by four a.m. If I were you, I'd take an hour to get familiar with Chapter 14 and use the other three hours to nap.”

“I'm not following you,” he said, handing the binder back to Larabeth. “I'm sure Cynthia did a lovely job with this, but I don't need to know how she earns her living. I need to find her, tell her what's going on, and get the hell out.”

“And I've told you that we can't be that obvious. That's why I can't go at all. Babykiller's people may be crawling all over South Carolina by now, and they'll know me in a heartbeat. So will Cynthia and all the other BioHeal employees on-site. But they won't know you.”

“What exactly do you need me to do?”

“I need you to pose as a field technician. You will deliver a letter from me addressed to the field team leader. That's Cynthia. This letter will trigger the protocols described in Chapter 14.”

J.D. reached for the safety manual. “And what protocols, exactly, are described in Chapter 14?”

“Chapter 14 is triggered in case of major problems at the Savannah River nuclear facility. Could be an accident, could be a terrorist attack. Chapter 14 is a safety plan that tells BioHeal's employees what to do if they get word that the whole place is going up. We call it the ultimate scenario.”

“That's a pretty dramatic term for a bunch of engineers.”

“It's not dramatic. For people on-site, it's a pure statement of fact. When you trigger the ultimate scenario, Cynthia's job is to get her entire team as many miles away as she can before the thing blows.”

“According to Babykiller, the ultimate scenario may really happen.”

“But if you get there in time, and if you trigger the ultimate scenario, and if everything goes smoothly, you and Cynthia and all my other employees will be far away. And anyone trying to get to Cynthia will have some trouble doing it when she's surrounded by you and a couple dozen other people, all identically dressed from head to toe in blue BioHeal safety gear.”

J.D. sat on her office sofa and began paging slowly through the safety plan. “I believe I counted four "if's" in that last statement. I had best study this thing from cover to cover.”

* * *

J.D. was reading Chapter 14 for the second time when Larabeth returned to her office. She sank heavily into her desk chair and began flipping through a bulging accordion file. One by one, she pulled folders from the file. She scrutinized the contents of each one, stared at J.D. a moment, then replaced the contents of the folder and laid it on her desk. She had repeated this procedure six times when J.D. cracked.

“What in hell are you doing?” he asked, taking the envelope from her hand.

“I have completely abandoned all pretense of ethical and legal behavior,” she said. “Some of BioHeal's employees only make one visit to a secured site during the course of their entire career, but we still have to compile information on those people to get them security clearances that they'll never use them again. All that information stays on file.”

“And I'm going to use one of their clearances to get on-site?”

“Yep.” She dangled a laminated piece of cardboard, about credit card size, with an alligator clip attached to the corner. “You'll need a photo ID. I'm trying to figure out which of these guys looks the most like you. We can dye your hair if it will help. You can't grow a beard or mustache on command, but if we pick a guy with facial hair, you can always tell the guard that BioHeal made you shave.”

“Your company has a dress code? Larabeth, this is the twentieth century. The very tail-end of the twentieth century.”

“Beep. Wrong answer. Keep studying.”

J.D. looked offended. “I have been studying, but some of the rules seem kind of anal-retentive.”

“You're dealing with scientists. If there's a rule, there's a reason for it. Field employees must shave all facial hair. Otherwise, the face masks on their respirators may fail to seal. Would you like to breathe the crap those people work with every day?”

“No, ma'am. I mean Dr. McLeod. I stand corrected and I will continue to study.” He tossed the safety manual onto the couch. “But first, let me see those files. I'll bet I can find somebody handsome enough to pass for me.”

He flipped through them quickly, selected a photo ID, and handed it to Larabeth. “I can look like him. No problem. I weigh a little more than he does, but this picture is a year old. Everybody gains weight sometimes.”

Larabeth tried to put the ID card back in the envelope. “No,” she said, “not this guy.”

“Don't be silly. He's about the right height and the right age. His eyes are the right color. So he's bald as an egg. I saw a makeup bag in there,” he pointed to a desk drawer, “and I'll bet you've got one of those dainty pink lady's razors in it. I can shave my head a lot quicker than I can go get a bottle of dye and use it.”

“No. Not this guy,” she said, tugging at the ID card.

“Larabeth. My hair will grow back.”

She looked up at him and said, “No.” She had picked a damnable time to turn obstinate. More obstinate.

“No,” she said. “This man's dead. He died of cancer a few months ago. He lost his hair to chemotherapy. I can't send you off masquerading as a dead guy. It's too spooky.”

He cocked his head. “You're mighty superstitious for a Ph.D. I'll tell you, dear, that I feel safer trying to pass for this man than any of the others, living or dead. At least I actually resemble him. If I can't get through that security gate, I won't be able to get to Cynthia. But Babykiller will. You know he can.”

Larabeth's face, normally so pale, was even whiter. She was only a bit shorter than he was, so she just had to reach up slightly to lace all ten fingers through his hair. “Go on. Shave your head, if you must. Just make sure you bring it back home. And the rest of you, too.”