Perilous Panacea (29 page)

A cryptic message appeared on the monitor screen. Curt typed another command, and the lathe spun to a halt. Simmons changed tools. Another typed command sent the lathe back into motion.

The smell of burning machine oil from the lathe activated a memory cell not connected to Drafton or Surling: the acrid smell of burning flux from a soldering iron and his blacksmith father at work in the Dref, Iowa of his youth. All he ever wanted was to escape from the corn-field walls that separated Dref from the outside world.

Like the reaction of someone hit by a terminal illness, he hoped for a miracle, but all the time his logical mind knew it was hopeless. It was so unfair. Lori, Beth, their future, the new child, all of his plans shot. His first five-year plan worked to perfection. Five more years, ten at most, he would have been a millionaire, and he would have proved himself to both their fathers. With everything within his grasp, Lormes and Applenu stepped in and grabbed him.

He’d done everything to survive. That thought nagged him, for regardless of how hard he tried to blame Surling, he knew he’d do the Drafton thing again. He now knew the stacked cards of death should be cheated at all costs.

As the high-pitched whine of the lathe spun away the final minutes, its sound pierced his brain and penetrated to the bone like a dentist’s drill, numbing him to the inevitability of it all. Away from these ever-shining fluorescent lights, it was night. In Dref, Mom was at her night prayers. Pray for me, Mom.

He and Simmons both jumped when Maxwell burst into the room, his swollen black-and-blue left eye narrowed to a slit, his right eye wide open, as if fearing another blow. The white bandage across the left side of his forehead seemed to be the only thing that kept his lopsided head from deflating like a stuck balloon.

“Applenu wants you two,” he said, his voice hoarse. “There’s a fire in the room at the other end.”

“The processing room,” Simmons said. “Plutonium. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Maxwell herded Curt and Simmons toward the chaos at the other end of the hall, where Applenu and Markum waited outside the chemical-processing room. Half-way down the hall, they were joined by Beecher and Lormes, who emerged from the door marked OFFICE. As they approached Applenu, Lormes asked what happened.

Applenu, in a white lab coat, turned from Markum and said, “That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

Markum, his face red like his hair, his freckles dissolved by the red sea, said, “Me and Maxwell were taking everything out to the truck like Applenu told us to.”

“Right,” Maxwell said in a strong accent, trying to one-eye everyone there, his wobbling head pivoting on his neck like a gyroscope. “We accidentally knocked a metal container off a workbench, and when it hit the floor, there was a whoosh. Like air coming out…or maybe going in…you know, like when you open a can of coffee. Anyway, this box had all these warnings about fire, about being highly flammable. It started to smoke, and we hauled our asses out of there.”

“There wasn’t a fire,” Markum said. “Just some smoke. But we didn’t wait around. We got our last load out of there as fast as we could. We don’t want to end up like Drafton.”

Curt watched, wondering if he could just walk away while their attention was diverted.

“That wasn’t any bloody smoke,” Applenu said to Lormes. “They probably saw dust from the top of the container. There’s nothing dangerous in there, because we moved all the radioactive material into the furnace room.” He turned to Simmons. “Isn’t that right, Perk?”

Simmons, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his khaki pants, stared at the ceiling, as if trying to picture the inside of the room. He asked Markum to describe the container.

“It was round like a barrel, a metal barrel. It had writing on the side, all kinds of warnings about not dropping the container or letting the contents get in contact with air. It said something about plutoni-something alloys…”

“The plutonium alloys,” Simmons said. “That was smoke. We should have gotten rid of those.”

“What alloys?” Applenu demanded.

“The pyrophoric alloy powders.”

“That word was on the side of the barrel,” Maxwell said. “Along with all those warnings about handling with care and not letting the contents get in contact with air.”

“Pyro-what?” Lormes asked.

“Pyrophoric,” Applenu said. “It means they can ignite spontaneously and burn when exposed to air. But if that’s what it is, at worst, it’s just smoldering. No bloody way could they have seen any smoke as soon as it hit the floor. From what I’ve read, those alloys only ignite and burn if they’ve got a good supply of oxygen, which they wouldn’t have with just a pinhole knocked in the side of the container when it fell off the shelf. There might not even be a hole.”

“It will probably depend on how it falls,” Simmons said. “It could just as easily crack wide open if it fell right. It was piled fairly high.”

“If it’s radioactive, why didn’t the alarms go off?” Lormes asked.

“They were disconnected after Drafton’s accident,” Simmons said.

Applenu pointed to the fire extinguisher in the corner by the door. “What we’ve got to do is to go in there and make sure no fire gets going. We can do that while any hole in the container is small. Hell, it could smolder for days before it really gets going. Or it could form a layer of oxide and stop all by itself without us doing anything.”

Simmons nodded hesitantly. Everyone else stared at Applenu, who said, “Once we get the oxygen away from the alloy, we’ll shut that room off and finish machining that last piece of plutonium in the hot cell. Then we’ll load up and cut away.”

Beecher pointed to Maxwell and Markum. “Grab that fire extinguisher and get in there. Smother it with foam, which should keep it from reigniting.”

Maxwell’s lopsided head bobbed up and down as it swiveled around on his neck, pausing first at Applenu, then Lormes. He turned back to Beecher. “Fuck you,” he said. “I am not going to end up like Drafton. He breathed just a little of that shit and it killed him.”

Curt glanced down the hall, his mind keyed on the office door halfway between where they stood and the corridor past his quarters. Was that door unlocked? Could he make it in there and lock the door before they grabbed him? Or shot him in the back like Surling?

“I’m not going in there either,” Markum said.

“All you’ve got to do is put masks and protective clothing on,” Applenu said, “like we did when we decontaminated the furnace room. That way you won’t inhale any radioactive material.”

Maxwell and Markum took a step back from Applenu.

Curt backed up, keeping his same distance from Maxwell, but getting himself a step closer to the office door.

Lormes pointed to the chemical-processing room. “What keeps those vapors from coming out and contaminating the whole building when they open that door to go inside?”

“There’s an air lock with negative pressure between that door and the room the alloys are in,” Applenu said. “After they stop any smoldering, they’ll leave their clothes in the contaminated part of the air lock, just like Drafton did when he was contaminated.”

“We’d better hurry,” Simmons said. “The longer it smolders, the bigger that hole gets. Eventually, it’ll get hot enough to blow the barrel apart, and the whole room will go up.”

Lormes turned to Markum and Maxwell. “What are you two waiting for?”

The two sad faces stared at each other. Markum spoke. “I don’t mean no disrespect, Mr. Lormes, but I saw what happened to Drafton. He breathed some of that stuff, and…”

“But he didn’t have a mask on,” Applenu said. “You’ll have masks and protective clothing. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Not me,” Markum said and took another step back, still farther from the entrance to the chemical-processing room.

Curt shuffled another half step toward the office door. Was now the time to run?

“Let Simmons or Applenu do it,” Maxwell said. “They’re Applenu’s bombs, let him do it. We’re not getting paid to take those kinds of chances.”

With his head cocked to the left, Maxwell scanned the knot of people standing there. His one-eyed stare landed on Curt, and a dark hatred burned through to Curt. He continued to stare at Curt, pushing at the bandage on his forehead as if trying to think. Then he smiled. “Let him do it. Let him earn his money.”

All eyes turned to Curt.

- - - - -

Saul braked to a stop at the entrance of the wide deserted street, a typical deserted industrial area at twelve-fifteen on a Friday morning.

“It’s the second building on the left,” Lori Reedan said.

He drove into the street and stopped in front of the darkened building.

“You can’t stop here,” she said, her voice verging on a scream. “If they come out, they’ll see us.”

Saul drove to the end of the street, turned around, and pulled into the shadows of the building opposite the one she had pointed to. If they were threatened, he could take off fast. He turned off the engine and studied the dark building. “I can’t make out that sign.”

“It says General Nuclear American Company.”

“There’s nobody in there,” he said, thinking Fortner’s domestic quarrel theory was correct. She doesn’t hear from him, goes to pieces, and starts manufacturing crazy scenarios.

He studied the building. His first reaction was that they would not set the manufacturing process up right here, less than five miles from where they stole the material? Then again, it made sense in a way. After they hijacked the load, they would not have to take it out on the road and risk getting stopped. It would not be expected. But why would they call it a nuclear company? Probably lots of nuclear companies in Oak Ridge, so it would not be out of place.

“There’s a light in there,” Lori said.

Saul rolled down his window. “It’s probably some sort of night light, ma’am.”

“What about the car and truck being there? When I was here earlier, they put something in the truck. I just noticed that car on the other side of the loading dock. It wasn’t there when I was here before. You’re going to need help.”

“If we need more people, we’ll get them,” Saul said.

- - - - -

With his mind concentrated on the office door, the suggestion that Curt go into the chemical-processing room caught him off guard. He sensed hope in the gazes of the six men around him. After all, Surling charged into the contamination after Drafton’s accident.

He remembered his panic when Surling nonchalantly helped Drafton get out. That was before they unleashed radioactivity in the room. His first impulse was to tell them to go in there themselves, but that would not get him through the office door. Instead, he decided to stall. “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

Beecher grabbed the fire extinguisher and shoved it at him. “Just get your ass in there and put out the fire.”

Curt ignored him and spoke to Applenu. “I said, what’s in it for me?”

Applenu looked at Lormes and then back at Curt, but he seemed to look past him, as if trying to think it through. “What if we give you another hundred-thousand dollars?”

“Yeah,” Lormes said, a tentative smile whirling to his lips. “You put out that fire, and we’ll make it a nice round four-hundred thousand.”

Applenu, his eyes still not on Curt, nodded.

Curt smiled and cast his gaze to the floor as if considering the proposition. He decided to assume the office door was unlocked.

Before Curt could reply, Applenu grabbed the fire extinguisher from Beecher and started giving orders, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “Get him some protective coveralls, gloves, and a mask from the change room. He can get dressed out here.”

Beecher dispatched Markum after the requested items.

Applenu took several steps toward the chemical-processing room and motioned Curt to join him. He turned to Beecher. “He needs to take a second fire extinguisher with him. There’s one in the machine room.”

Beecher sent Maxwell after it and then stood across the corridor at the opposite wall, arms folded, staring at Curt. Simmons and Lormes joined Beecher.

Curt glanced once more at the office door, but with Beecher standing there staring at him, there was no way to make it through there, even if it was unlocked. He hesitated, but then advanced toward Applenu, who led him to the opposite wall from Beecher, set down the fire extinguisher and pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket.

Applenu sketched a diagram on the beige wall and quietly explained the arrangement of the processing room and the location of the pyrophoric alloys. “I saw you looking at the office door,” he said in a quieter voice. “It’s locked. I’ll unlock it, and if you get a chance, go for it. There’s no bloody way I would go in that room, and there’s no bloody way I want you to wind up like Surling.”

Applenu turned to Lormes. “I think there’s a new mask in the office. I’ll get it.”

- - - - -

What to do? Saul wondered. Was he sitting here with a crazy woman? Or was he in a position to solve one of the FBI’s most important crimes of all time? Should he assume Lori Reedan was a spurned woman who had suffered a breakup of her marriage? Or should he call Fortner and tell him to alert his Knoxville colleagues and get over here so they can raid an illegal atomic bomb-making operation?

- - - - -

They waited. Simmons and Lormes discussed the situation as they backed further away from the chemical-processing room door. Applenu emerged from the office carrying a protective mask.

Now or never, Curt thought, before Markum and Maxwell got back. He hefted the fire extinguisher from the floor. It was too heavy and cumbersome for a club. He told Beecher to hurry up Markum and Maxwell.

Beecher turned, took a step down the hall and yelled.

Curt reached down and pulled the safety pin of the fire extinguisher. He jerked the canister off the floor, stepped into the middle of the hall and aimed the black megaphone nozzle at Beecher’s head, just as he looked back from calling down the hall.

Beecher opened his mouth to yell, but before words emerged and before he could step toward Curt, white foam lathered his face.

Beecher screamed, took a step backward, and stumbled forward, groping for Curt like a grotesque mummy.

Curt pivoted around to Applenu, who tossed the mask aside and rushed toward him. Curt blasted away, aiming low to avoid Applenu’s face, assuming he was making a show to avoid being accused of helping Curt escape. Applenu turned his head, and Curt lathered his lower body. Applenu stumbled backward and tumbled onto the floor.

Curt turned the megaphone on Simmons and sprayed. Simmons backed off, his hands across his face.

Lormes glanced around and then shuffled forward with both hands out in front of him as if ready to ward off an imminent attack.

Curt aimed for Lormes’s eyes and scored a direct hit, as white foam splattered across the shoulders of his gray pin-stripe jacket, like the splash from a cream pie in the face.

Lormes yelled for Beecher to shoot.

With Beecher behind him to his left and the office door ahead of him on the right, Curt whirled to face Beecher.

Beecher rubbed at the foam in his eyes with his left hand, while he fumbled under his jacket with his right.

Curt blasted him in the face.

“You son of a bitch, Reedan. I’ll get you.”

Curt stepped back and sprayed the floor between himself and Beecher.

Beecher shuffled in the direction of the last blast, his outstretched hands grabbing wildly at the air in front of him. He reached the foam-covered floor, slipped, and went down hard.

Curt turned and found himself next to Applenu, who was trying to stand. “Sod you, Reedan.”

Curt blasted the floor at Applenu’s feet. Applenu started forward, slipped, and went down.

Curt turned back to Beecher, who crawled forward on hands and knees in the foam. He rose up onto his knees and fumbled in his jacket for his gun. Curt struck at Beecher with the black megaphone, trying to crush his head, remembering his big hands on Lori’s breasts. He swung again, harder. The megaphone caved in.

Beecher, still on his knees, pulled back, both his hands covering his head.