The Krone Experiment k-1

by J. Craig Wheeler

  She felt as if the floor were suddenly thrust up under her, as with the rapid rise of an elevator. She fell backward heavily onto the stage. As she tipped, a large ragged gash was torn along the length of one of the four canopy posts. The post snapped and splintered. Deprived of symmetrical support, the mirrored canopy sagged and then twisted as the remaining three posts tilted in unison.

  The dancer stared upward in numb shock and saw her image grow. With a burst of panic she realized the canopy was collapsing upon her. She flung her arms over her face and shrieked. The men seated along the perimeter recoiled frantically as chairs and bodies went sprawling. The young cowboy with the eagle feather made an aborted move toward the woman, but he was too far away. The canopy crashed down putting an abrupt end to her screams.

  The bouncer-cashier-projectionist, who had been sitting on a stool by the entrance attempting to read a paperback western in the dim light, dropped the book when the first post splintered and stood as if paralyzed, watching the collapse of the canopy. In the stillness that followed, he took a few tentative steps toward the stage. All he could see of the dancer was one leg. A shard of mirror the size and shape of a pizza slice was embedded in her thigh, its shiny surface obliterated by a pulsing gout of arterial blood. The man paled, raced for the door and clattered down the stairs toward the street shouting hysterically.

  Across the alley and down the block rose one of the taller buildings in the neighborhood. It was vacant save for a janitorial staff scattered over several floors. As the patrons of Crazy Lil’s joined the hysterical employee on the adjacent street, a small tunnel was punctured in the rear corner of the building where the left side and rear walls joined. This tunnel proceeded rapidly but methodically down through the wall passing with equal ease through concrete and reinforcing bars.

  A minute or so passed uneventfully, then fractures began to radiate from the tunnel into the surrounding concrete. The building settled slightly, amplifying the unequal distribution of stress along the wound and increasing the rate of fracturing.

  Inside, in a corner of the building, a weary man guided a buffing machine slowly back and forth. He stopped suddenly as he felt a shift in the floor. The unguided buffing machine dug more heavily on one side and skittered away from him. He grabbed for it and quickly shut it off. He stood, listened and felt through his feet the barely perceptible vibrations of rupturing concrete.

  He shuffled out of the office into the hallway. He stopped and felt with his feet again and sensed nothing.

  “Hey, Harold!”

  A young man working with a mop on the floor at the far end of the corridor looked up.

  “C’mon down here. There’s sumpin’ funny goin’ on.”

  The old man led the younger one into the office and stood him in the corner. They stared at one another as each felt the minute vibrations emanating from the weakened corner. Suddenly, a portion of the rear wall sagged a quarter of an inch. A jagged crack raced from the corner of the room to the windowsill. The window glass shattered; some pieces fell inward; others made the longer plunge to the alley below.

  Harold shouted.

  “Hey! This mother’s comin’ apart!”

  He raced for the door. The old man followed him in a lumbering jog.

  “Harold, you’re faster than I am. You get upstairs and warn the folks there. I’ll head down.”

  Harold spun to a stop’ and stared hard at the old man. After a long moment he nodded and pushed through the exit door into the stairway and headed up three steps at a time. The old man followed him and two-stepped downward.

  A block away, Glen Wilson and Sam Spangler had joined the crowd that stood a discreet distance from the man who had run, shouting into the street. Now the man was pacing nervously about, mumbling incoherently. Patrons of the strip joint babbled to one another or to passers-by about what had happened. People from the Poodle Lounge below anxiously explained their disruption to whoever would listen. Wilson tried to absorb these several conversations at once. As they had crossed the street, he had heard the returning echo of the whistling roar that had preceded the commotion. The sound had vanished in an ill-determined direction, but he also listened for some repercussion.

  Finally, he heard the muted crashes as large chunks of masonry began to break away from the other building, crashing into the alley. He grabbed his partner’s arm and led him off down the street in the general direction of the sound.

  As they reached the nearest intersection, they heard from around the corner the terrifying roar as the rear quarter of the building gave way. Portions of the rear and side walls peeled away to expose the multilayered innards of the building as if it were a large misshapened doll house.

  The two agents froze at the corner until the noise died away and then walked to the alley and peered down it toward the ruined building. Even in the dim light they could see the huge pile of rubble reaching above the second floor, torn chunks of concrete interspersed with crushed office furniture. Soon they were joined by others from the crowd in front of the strip joint.

  The agents edged out of the crowd. Wilson began to start back toward the bar, but Spangler gestured in the opposite direction, and they walked to the intersection and turned.

  They passed in front of the damaged building. The only sign of disturbance from this aspect was the group of a dozen or so janitorial workers who huddled nervously in the street, some talking loudly, many standing silent, a few still conspicuously clutching their brooms and mops.

  The agents continued on around the block. Back on the first street they returned to their car. A squad car was parked in front of the strip joint entrance. From a distance, the wail of approaching sirens could be heard. The crowd had grown. They got in the car. Wilson put the key in the ignition, but paused before he turned it. He looked at his partner.

  “What in god’s name do you suppose that was?”

  Spangler was slumped down in his seat, staring straight ahead.

  “Beats the living hell out of me. Never seen anything like it.”

  “This ought to get headquarters lathered up. I have a feeling the boss was hoping nothing would happen, but now they’re going to want some physical evidence. From that collapsed building for sure, probably in that bar, too. I hope the locals don’t go mucking around and mess something up. No sense talking to the beat cop over there, but it’s not our business to go higher up. I hate to play dumb bunny, but I guess we need to call home for orders.”

  “I need something,” Spangler growled. “Jesus!”

  Wilson cranked the key and headed for the motel room they had rented out toward the airport.

  Four days later, on a waning Friday afternoon, Vincent Martinelli hosted Isaacs for a celebratory drink. He put the bottle on the little bar built in behind his desk then swiveled in his chair and hoisted his double scotch and soda.

  “L’chaim!”

  The turning point in Nagasaki flashed in Isaacs’ mind.

  “Kampai,” he said, returning the salute.

  “Well, son-of-a-bitch, Bob,” Martinelli said. “Maybe old man Drefke’s not a complete knucklehead after all. For a while there I thought I was going to have to look for a new career, Kelly Girl or some such thing.”

  Isaacs grinned. “I’ll tell you it was a relief to me when he agreed to read my memo. Up to that point he could easily have just said screw it and tossed the lot of us out.”

  “Seriously,” Martinelli said, “I appreciate everything you did to save my butt.”

  “For god’s sake, Vince, I got you into it.”

  “I’m a big boy, I knew what I was doing. I appreciate you going to bat for me.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’m relieved we got out okay.” They both stared into their drinks, a little embarrassed by this open exchange of gratitude.

  Then Martinelli strove to recapture the spirit of celebration. “So how is friend McMasters taking all this?” he inquired in a jovial tone.

  “He’s sulking.�
�

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  They both chuckled.

  “It really backfired on him,” Isaacs mused. “Not only did he not get me booted, but now Drefke’s made the whole investigation top priority and put me in charge. That’s really going to hurt him.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope that a little luster’s gone off his star?”

  “My reading is that Drefke still appreciates his ability to run internal affairs, but he sees him in a different light now. McMasters had some rationale to argue Project QUAKER wasn’t agency business, but his forbidding me to work on it and then having me shadowed don’t look too hot in hindsight.”

  “Ah, another toast then. To the future Deputy Director of Intelligence.” Martinelli raised his glass to Isaacs.

  “C’mon, Vince,” Isaacs protested.

  “You know it’s true.”

  Isaacs was pleased, but embarrassed again. He recognized the timetable for his promotion had probably accelerated.

  “So what’s happening in Dallas?” Martinelli inquired.

  Isaacs laughed, glad to change the subject.

  “You wouldn’t believe the confusion out there. Your basic case of conflicting authorities. The city cops are all over the place. The governor, and more importantly, his chief financial backers, are all from Dallas. They feel personally attacked, so the governor’s got a squad of investigators from the state intelligence bureau on the spot. That’s already enough to piss off the locals and make for a general madhouse because nobody in those outfits has any idea what it is they’re supposed to be investigating. Then we get into the act and that really stirs up the pot.

  “I wanted to send in a few of my people on the quiet, but by the time Drefke made his decision to go ahead the place was swarming with the Texas troops. Drefke decided we had to follow the letter of the charter: no internal investigations.

  “So we contacted the FBI and they sent a team of investigators. We told them what sort of information we want, but not why. We’re sitting on that till we better understand what’s going on. One of the things this accomplishes is to get the local FBI special agent riled up, first because he’s got these out-of-towners descending on him, and worse because he knows they’re working for us, not even for the FBI.”

  Isaacs chuckled again.

  “To complete the confusion, the local cops and the state police have been ordered to cover up the FBI involvement and to absolutely avoid any hint leaking out that the Agency is interested. I doubt that will be totally hushed up, but it’s got them in a pickle.”

  “Wow, real circus then,” Martinelli laughed. “I’ve got to sympathize with the local cops. If I’ve got the picture right, they’ve got the formal public responsibility for the investigation, but can only go through the motions while the spooks crawl in and out of the woodwork.”

  “That’s about it,” Isaacs said. “Actually, we need to help them develop some cover story. They really are in a bind.”

  “So are you learning anything in the midst of all this chaos?”

  “A bit. We sent a team to check the site in Nagasaki. We had less trouble with the Japanese government than we’ve had with Texans.” Isaacs shook his head in amusement. “The physical evidence is very similar in the two cases. I put that in my preliminary report. That’s what convinced Drefke to let us all off with that bit of wrist-slapping today and give me the green light.”

  “Another?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got to get home. This whole thing has been tough on Muriel. I promised her a nice quiet dinner out.”

  “Fair enough.” Martinelli grinned, but then a serious look settled over his eyes. “I read that copy you sent me earlier this week of your original memo outlining this mess. Frankly, I lost some sleep over it. Can you explain to me what the hell’s really happening?”

  Isaacs shook his head wearily. “I’m relieved we’re off the hook and the investigation can go ahead full throttle, but the truth is I’m scared. I don’t know what we’re up against. There’s something damned serious going on.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “We’ve got to get better heads than mine working on the clues. Pat Danielson and I had a brief consultation with Jason back in our underground days, three weeks ago. We’re headed back there on Monday. I’m not sure anything will come of it, but we have some fresh evidence from Nagasaki and Dallas, and I can’t think what else to do.”

  “Well, good luck. Have a quiet weekend, will you? And my love to Muriel.”

  “Thanks, Vince.”

  Isaacs drained his glass and headed home.

  Chapter 11

  Pat Danielson was home. Her relief had turned to elation during Drefke’s lecture to them the previous Friday afternoon. As he droned on in somber tones, she slowly realized that he was not only reinstating them, he was granting Isaacs full authority to pursue Project QUAKER. She had invited Janine out to one of their favorite spots and had gotten gaily tipsy before dinner. Returning to the apartment, she had succumbed to a spontaneous urge and called her father in Los Angeles and made plans to spend the weekend with him.

  She enjoyed it immensely, being back in the small house so flooded with childhood memories, now gently nostalgic in her buoyant good mood. She and her father took walks down familiar sidewalks, the cracks in them so much closer together than when she had played hopscotch along them. They talked long and avidly, sharing experiences past and present. More balm on the wound in their relation, now nearly invisible. Long Beach and the ocean were only two miles away. She spent Sunday afternoon on the beach, alternately body-surfing, jogging, and soaking up the Sun, a teenager again. She rediscovered the simple pleasure of sitting on the seawall and watching the world go by—Sunburned throngs on bicycles, roller skates, skateboards, even a few ordinary pedestrians, all in constant motion up and down the miles of beachfront sidewalk. She thought a lot about Project QUAKER and their scheduled meeting with Jason to renew their consultation. She thought about Alex Runyan. She looked forward to seeing him again.

  Late Monday morning, Danielson flew down to San Diego and met Isaacs’ incoming flight. By early afternoon, they were back in Ellison Gantt’s room closeted with the same members of Jason. Both Wayne Phillips and Alex Runyan had greeted them on their arrival. Runyan, again in shorts, T-shirt, and thongs, had attached himself to Danielson, escorting her with friendly chatter up the stairs and to a seat on the comfortable, slightly frayed sofa next to the portable blackboard. She had self-consciously enjoyed the attention. Now she looked around noting with amusement the tendency for people to resume the positions they had previously established, even three weeks before, some instinctual territoriality, she supposed. Noldt and Fletcher sat in the same chairs, next to the sofa. Noldt’s round face beamed as he greeted her again. Fletcher had just come in from a run on the beach, his dark lean face still flushed and his hair wet from a shower. Gantt was again seated at his desk, looking as grey and undistinguishable as ever. Zicek and Leems came in. Leems scowled and took the chair by the door, but Zicek smiled and joined the pair on the sofa.

  Phillips and Isaacs remained standing by the door until Zicek was seated, then Phillips spoke. “Gentlemen, you remember Dr. Danielson and Mr. Isaacs and the novel problem they brought to us before. There have been a number of developments, among which is the change in status of this situation. They came to us informally before to seek what wisdom we had to offer. Now they are here on highest priority official status. I urge you to listen carefully to their new information and to address this problem with all the acumen at your command. I’ve no doubt that when you have heard the latest developments you’ll need no further goad from me. Mr. Isaacs.”

  “Thank you, Professor Phillips.” Isaacs clasped his hands behind his back and looked around the room, last and longest at Harvey Leems seated close to his left side. “You’ll recall that Dr. Danielson had predicted that our regular seismic, sonar signal was to impinge on Nagasaki on July 7 a
nd on Dallas July 26, just a week ago.

  “For Nagasaki we stationed a ground observer in the area and obtained high resolution aerial reconnaissance photographs. At about the predicted time, a chlorine tank in a nearby warehouse sprang a leak. A workman in the warehouse was killed by gas inhalation, and a number of others were hospitalized with lung damage. The tank was punctured with two holes approximately a centimeter in diameter. A vertical line through these holes was aligned with a similar hole in the concrete floor. The hole appeared to extend into the subsoil beneath the foundation, but there is a high water table and moist soil obliterated any sign after a few centimeters. The skylight above this line of holes was broken out. In the street we found a truck with its engine blown. There were signs of odd damage to it, but it had been moved and we can’t determine with certainty that there is a connection. The aerial survey photos showed nothing.”

  “While you’re on that point,” Runyan interrupted. “I had some astronomical colleagues take photos of the points in space the signal seems to travel between. Same result, zip.”

  “I see,” said Isaacs. “That’s interesting.” And maybe not too smart, he thought to himself. If they had found something, a big goddamn cat could have been out of the bag.

  “In Dallas,” he continued, “the details were different, but the overall picture was the same. Two buildings were damaged. In one, there is a hole roughly a centimeter across from the roof down through the basement. Again, evidence for penetration into the subsoil, but in Dallas it was too sandy to support the tunnel, or whatever it was. Once again there was a death, incidental, but related. A young woman was crushed when a structure collapsed on her.”

  “How’s that?” asked Noldt, his owlish face screwed in concentration.