“Then why all the hysteria?”
“Again: protocol. And an abundance of caution. Even if the radiation is minimal, we’ve got to follow the rules. After all, we don’t know where it came from.”
“Those rules didn’t get in the way of my taking ‘it’ to Santa Fe and irradiating the Institute!” Nora said, more hotly than she intended. She took a deep breath. “Sorry. My job…well, there’s some politics going on just this moment.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Corrie replied.
They walked a few moments in silence.
“I just don’t understand how this is possible,” Nora said.
“Ditto. All I know is that the bones of the mule, the pack, and everything associated with the body—along with the body itself—are radioactive.”
Following the men in monkey suits, they wended their way through the basement of the FBI building, passing through a warren of cinder-block corridors. At last they stopped before a door, and Morwood punched in a code. The door clicked open to reveal a vast storage room, shelves packed floor to ceiling with containers and strange items wrapped in plastic. Nora could see everything from an ancient car bumper and a section of sawed-up flooring to a window frame riddled with bullet holes. Next to the window frame was an old Tommy gun with a drum magazine.
“The evidence room,” Corrie said.
“It’s like a museum.”
“It is a museum,” Morwood said. “And, like in a museum, nothing ever gets thrown out.”
They passed through the room, eventually reaching a gleaming steel door at the far end covered with radiation hazard symbols.
“We have to wait here,” Morwood said.
The door opened with a hiss, and brilliant lights beyond blinked on automatically, revealing a clean, spare room. The two men went in, and the door slid shut behind them.
“After 9/11,” Morwood explained, “a few critical FBI offices got radiological evidence rooms such as this. We were one of them.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we head up to my office and discuss this, ah, development?”
Minutes later they were taking seats in his office. Morwood settled down behind the desk, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward. “So,” he said with a thin smile, looking at each of them in turn. “I guess everyone’s first reaction to this news can be summed up quite simply: What the hell is going on?”
A silence gathered.
“Do either of you have any idea how this fellow, Gower, got irradiated?”
Another silence. “The bones, clothing, the mule skeleton—it’s all radioactive?” Nora asked.
“Yes,” Corrie replied.
“The man disappeared seventy-five years ago,” said Nora. “So how is it even possible that his corpse is radioactive? Where on earth…?”
And then, abruptly, she stopped and turned to Morwood. The seed of an idea had taken root in her head. “Might I ask why the Albuquerque office was one of the few to get a radiological evidence room?”
Morwood gave her a faint smile. “Los Alamos and Sandia National Labs, the nation’s two premier laboratories for nuclear weapons research, are within our jurisdiction.”
“Los Alamos,” Nora said. The idea that had begun to form in her head now blossomed into a revelation—one so powerful it almost took her breath away. She turned to Corrie. “What was the exact date Gower disappeared?”
“Let’s see.” Corrie paged through her tablet. “He was reported missing in July 1945.”
Now Nora’s heart was hammering. “In 1945, the first atomic bomb was detonated right here in New Mexico, the Trinity test—in the desert just south of High Lonesome. Corrie, look up the date on your iPad.”
Corrie brought up a web screen and began to read from Wikipedia. “Trinity was the code name of the first detonation of a nuclear device. It was conducted by the United States Army at 5:29 AM on July 16, 1945.”
Corrie looked up. “The same month Gower was reported missing.”
“Keep reading,” Morwood said.
“The test was conducted in the Jornada del Muerto desert about thirty-five miles southeast of Socorro, New Mexico, on what was then the USAAF Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range, now part of White Sands Missile Range.”
Corrie set down her tablet. An electric silence filled the room. And then Nora spoke. “So Gower got caught in the atomic blast.”
“Caught—and killed by it,” Corrie said. “That explains those strange forensic details—the fractured ribs and skull, the skin coming off in strips. And the clothes that looked almost as if they were singed.”
“Exactly,” said Nora. “Because they were burned.”
“And also the fractured ribs of the mule! They must have been hit pretty hard by the pressure wave of the blast. Probably knocked them down.”
“Right,” said Nora. “Gower couldn’t have been at ground zero, or he would have been vaporized. But he was close enough to be injured, yet survive—briefly. With a massive dose of radiation. He managed to get back to his camp in High Lonesome before he died.”
“And that’s why the mule was shot,” said Corrie. “Gower put it out of its misery before he died.”
Morwood sat back in his chair. “Extraordinary. A man, killed in the first atomic test—and all these years, no one knew.” He tapped a finger on the desk, thinking. “Since the event occurred on a military reservation during a weapons test, we obviously have to bring in the army. So I would suggest that the next step is to brief army command at the White Sands Missile Range on these findings.” He glanced at Nora. “And for now, this must remain absolutely confidential. Don’t tell your colleagues at the Institute.”
Nora nodded. She wondered how that would go down with Weingrau, when she eventually learned about it.
“But why was he out there?” Corrie asked. “What the hell was he doing?”
Morwood looked at her. “That, Corrie, is the question your investigation must now answer.”
24
THE ARMY COMMAND center at White Sands Missile Range was like a town unto itself, Corrie thought as they passed through a checkpoint into a sun-drenched grid of metal and stucco buildings in a flat expanse skinned out of the desert sands. She, Morwood, and Nora had driven to the base in one of the seemingly endless supply of black FBI SUVs. Following behind was Sheriff Homer Watts in his vehicle. Watts had been briefed, and his reaction had been one of astonishment.
They’d been met at the gate by a pair of soldiers in an open-top jeep, who escorted them past some housing blocks, a water tower, a golf course, and an array of white radar dishes to their destination: a low, flat structure of tan stucco. They pulled into a set of parking spaces reserved for the commander.
As they climbed out, Corrie took a deep breath. An early October heat wave had descended in full force, and it must have been close to a hundred degrees. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, and beyond the residential and operational areas of the base a dust devil twisted across the desert. Although the mountains framing the horizon were lofty and dramatic, it was not what you’d call a pretty place.
They were met at the door by another soldier, along with a welcome blast of A/C. The soldier ushered them through security and led them down a long corridor.
The base commander rose when they entered his office. “General Mark McGurk,” he said, coming around his desk and extending his hand. Corrie’s first reaction was one of surprise: he didn’t match her idea of a general at all. For one thing, he was short, with a round face. And instead of being in dress uniform, he wore rumpled combat camo, the only sign of rank a little black star on his left breast pocket.
“This is my executive assistant,” he said as they shook hands, “Lieutenant Woodbridge.”
By contrast, Lieutenant Woodbridge was Black, slender, elegant, and at least six inches taller than the general himself.
They all sat down in chairs arranged in front of the desk. The office was functional, with pictures of what Nora assumed to be McGurk’s wife and kids on the desk
, the walls covered with plaques, commendations, and photographs of missiles in various stages of testing: on the ground, rising into the air, and exploding. The desk was flanked by two flags, the American flag and the yellow flag of New Mexico, with its iconic Zia sun symbol.
“So,” General McGurk said, sitting back down, “I have to tell you that your notice came as a huge surprise. Imagine—finding the remains of someone killed in the Trinity test. I’ve reported it up the chain of command, and there’s been a lot of interest. And concern. Even though it happened seventy-six years ago, it obviously remains a tragedy—and it just as obviously has the potential for negative publicity. As we’re all too aware, anything nuclear is bound to be controversial.”
“Exactly our fears,” said Morwood. “It’s one of the reasons we’re keeping this under wraps.”
“Very smart. And I just want to add that we in the army appreciate the FBI bringing this to our attention so promptly.”
“At least we now know it wasn’t a homicide,” Morwood said. “But there are still some case details that need to be cleared up.”
The general nodded.
Morwood turned. “Special Agent Corinne Swanson is agent in charge. She’ll fill you in.”
The general’s eyes turned to Corrie. Although his expression remained unchanged, she nevertheless sensed surprise. It was, she knew, the usual combination of youth and gender that threw him off.
“Thank you, sir,” she said briskly. She removed a thick binder from her briefcase and placed it on the general’s desk. “I’ve copied all the relevant documents and reports.”
“Many thanks, Agent Swanson.”
She tried to speak confidently, keeping a quaver of nervousness out of her voice as she addressed this powerful, if approachable, individual. “I’ll just touch on the highlights of the investigation so far, sir. And then, if you don’t mind, I was hoping to ask a few questions.”
“Of course.”
Corrie proceeded to tell the general about the relic hunter, the shootout with Sheriff Watts, and the initial discovery of the body. “Dr. Nora Kelly performed the excavation,” she said. “There were a lot of puzzling forensic details relating to the body, most of which the man’s exposure to the Trinity test has now answered.” She described the fractures; the skin peeling like a mummy’s wraps; the charred areas of clothing. As she spoke, she flipped through the binder to show various pictures.
“The biggest surprise,” she said, “was that he was carrying an item of great value.” She flipped to the page containing photographs of the cross, and the general peered at it with interest.
“It appears to be from the early Spanish colonial period, before 1680. It was being examined at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute by Dr. Kelly here, until we realized its radioactivity.”
“An old cross,” the general said. “Any idea why it was on his person?”
“No idea,” said Corrie. “Not yet, anyway. It doesn’t appear to have been stolen.”
The general nodded.
“So that’s basically the briefing,” said Corrie. She glanced at Nora. “Dr. Kelly, do you have anything to add?”
“Yes, thank you. We’re trying to identify some unusual hallmarks on the cross, to see if we can’t trace its manufacture. It’s solid gold and of high craftsmanship. We’re fairly sure it was made in Mexico City in the early 1600s and brought up the Camino Real into New Mexico.”
The general smiled. “Well, I wish you luck. Meanwhile, have you identified the individual? And, for us on the base anyway, perhaps more to the point: Do you know who he was and what he was doing in the desert on the morning of July 16, 1945?”
“The man’s name was James Doolin Gower,” Corrie said. “His family owned a ranch where he grew up in the foothills of the San Andres Mountains. They were evicted when it was taken over by the government in 1942. While we don’t know what he might have been doing, exactly, he was not all that far from the area of his family’s old ranch when the bomb was tested.”
As she spoke, a flash of recognition went over the general’s face. “Gower? You mean this fellow was from the family that owned the old ranch house not far from the Trinity site? We call it the Gower Ranch.”
“One and the same,” said Morwood.
The general shook his head. “I’ll be damned. That place has some history to it, you know. The Manhattan Project personnel used it as a workshop in the days leading up to Trinity. In fact, Dr. Oppenheimer and a few others slept there the night before the test.” He paused a moment, thinking. “I’m pretty familiar with the history of the Trinity test, and there’s no mention of trespassers or others who had to be escorted off. Of course, that’s pretty wide, empty country. Do you think Gower was on his way back to his family’s ranch when the bomb went off?”
“Good question. We know he was upset about the government taking the land.”
“Can’t exactly blame him for that,” said McGurk. “Most of the ranchers who had their land taken weren’t happy. And to be honest, the government didn’t compensate them fairly at the time. That wrong was eventually corrected, but it took far too long.”
“General, do WSMR archives contain any information about the taking of the Gower Ranch?”
“I can’t say with certainty, but the government kept good records. I’ll get you what we have as quickly as possible.”
“And you say there were no trespassers on the range during the time of the test? No one else caught in the blast?”
The general shook his head. “There were a number of lawsuits from people living just outside the range who later got cancer. Those were settled years ago. Beyond that, nothing that stands out.”
“Were any members of the Gower family involved in those lawsuits?”
“I can certainly check.” McGurk turned to Woodbridge, who had been taking notes. “Please put a high priority on these requests.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My final question,” Corrie said, “is this: Could a visit to the Gower Ranch house be arranged?”
Morwood shot her a glance—she had intentionally not mentioned the request ahead of time, in case her boss shot it down—but the general merely nodded. “I don’t see why not. To the best of my knowledge, it’s been kept more or less intact—same furniture and so forth. Not for any particular reason; I assume at the time, moving things out was considered an unnecessary inconvenience. None of our personnel have much reason to enter that section of the base at present. The roof has been replaced once or twice, I believe, but essentially it’s the same place.”
“When would be convenient?” Corrie pressed.
“Why not right now?” The general turned. “Lieutenant, call for two jeeps and drivers from the vehicle pool.” He glanced back at Corrie. “It’s a bit of a drive, thirty miles each way, but we’ll pass through a good portion of the range, including the beautiful San Andres Mountains. This is a place not many get to see.”
25
THEY SET OFF in two jeeps. Corrie rode in the front of one with the general driving, with Watts and Nora sitting in the back, while Woodbridge and Morwood rode in the other.
They rode northward on a good gravel road along the base of the mountains, through scenery that was not only spectacular but pristine as well.
“Where are all the bomb craters?” she asked.
The general laughed over the rush of air. “This is the largest military installation in the United States—the size of Rhode Island and Delaware combined. The areas used for testing comprise less than one-tenth of one percent. Basically, this is one of the best-preserved landscapes in all of the Southwest.”
“How can that be?”
“When we took over the range in 1942, all domestic grazing stopped. The land’s returned to its original state. So essentially, you’re looking back in time—at New Mexico before the cattle arrived. If you go to the WSMR fence line, you’ll see the contrast. On one side is grass as tall as your waist. On the far side, it’s mostly cactus, tumbleweeds,
and creosote. Two centuries of grazing have been rough on the land.”
Corrie shook her head. “It looks like Africa.”
“It is like Africa,” said the general. “You won’t find better-preserved grassland in all of the West. If you keep an eye out, you might even see some oryx.”
“Oryx?”
“A big antelope with long, straight horns. They escaped from a game ranch in the thirties and thrive here, because they don’t need to drink water.”
Corrie felt her intimidation evaporating before the general’s open, chatty demeanor—and the fact that he was driving himself. “Excuse my ignorance—but what, exactly, goes on out here?”
“That’s a deceptively simple-sounding question. Where do I start? This is where we developed many of our short- and medium-range missiles, starting with V-2 missiles appropriated from the Germans right after World War Two, the Viking rockets, the Nike and Patriot air defense systems. These days, of course, there’s a lot of drone testing in partnership with Holloman AFB, which is adjacent. We’re also home to the White Sands Space Harbor, with two giant runways once used for the Space Shuttle, as well as an emergency orbiter landing site. Among other things, we train astronauts.” He paused. “And then, of course, there are the missile dogs.”
“Missile dogs?” Watts asked.
The general smiled. “Missiles don’t always behave like they should, especially during testing. Sometimes they explode in midair or fall apart, and the pieces that come down will be lost to radar. It can be hell to find them—not to mention that impact speed sometimes buries the parts in the sand. So we spray the critical parts with shark-liver oil. In the case of a loss, we helicopter the dogs and their handlers to the debris area—and they’ll have it swept clean before you know it.”
“That’s amazing,” Corrie said. Shark-liver oil. Who’d have guessed? The general was a veritable font of information, and it was clear he loved talking about the range under his command. She also knew that there had been friction, at times, between the FBI and the military. She sensed the general was trying to put her at ease, keep the tone light.
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