Still, it was an interesting job, a secure, well-paying job, a job he’d gotten over two of his fellow Berkeley overachiever classmates. He hadn’t known that Louise was pregnant back then.
Warren’s instincts told him there was substance to this Manzanita business. After a minute of searching the Los Angeles Times site he found a four-day-old story entitled: “Patient Missing in Hospital Fire,” subheaded: “Woman Presumed Dead - Investigators Baffled.”
Maybe Al would approve a trip down to Manzanita, away from the cold, damp City-by-the-Bay. Tyler, off for spring break next week, would go with him. If he told Louise they had to leave on Saturday or Sunday, she would certainly forgo taking Tyler this weekend and instead do what she did best – drinking and carousing and god-knows-what with her two skinny, pasty-ass girlfriends, Traci and Heidi. Traci and Heidi and Weezie! The magic trio. Smoking cigarettes and eating diet pills. The mere thought of them hanging around that sleazy dive down in the Fillmore gave him a chill. The mother of my child? What was I thinking?
Warren read on. “Hazmat investigators proceeded with caution, concerned that radioactivity may have leaked from a small cyclotron located in a room adjacent to the accident site, a fire investigator said. ‘We were fortunate the damage was confined to the MRI area,’ he said.”
So a County HAZMAT team had been there, no doubt with Geiger counters in hand. Radioactivity cases were usually rife with overlapping federal jurisdictions. Sometimes the Atomic Energy Commission got the lead. Sometimes EPA, or even HS or the Bureau or CIA - if terrorists were suspected. Of course, nobody really wanted the lead in a radiation case anyway. The work was dangerous, cleanups were difficult, and there was always that unpredictability factor, the unknown thing that radiation was famous for. But California county agencies were usually pretty cautious. If the CFD HAZMAT guys said no radiation, then radiation wasn’t likely a problem. Warren’s supervisor wasn’t going to authorize any field work for that.
Still, there was something potentially redeeming here: what caused the explosion? Warren reread the article, jotting names and details on a green steno pad. Outside the glass, the fog thickened, the little trails on the window moving faster.
Warren read aloud: “‘In 20 years on the force I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Dennis Hargrove, Manzanita Chief of Police. ‘The damage seems to be selective. Some objects in the room are badly burned or melted, others barely touched.”’
He browsed the three follow-up articles. A cause for the explosion had not been proved but the leading theory seemed to place blame on the MRI manufacturer, Gyttings-Lindstrom of Austin, Texas. There were two sidebars to this story, one about patients elsewhere in southern California who were now balking at MRIs and other types of tomography. ‘Explosion fever,’ the reporter called it. Cute! The other sidebar was about the relatively remote danger of cyclotron leakage. All of this, when factored together with the overall strangeness of the event, held out a glimmer of hope that Al may yet authorize an SIF. Warren decided to be encouraged.
He now moved over to the website of the third, smallest, and closest-to-the-accident newspaper. At the Manzanita Enterprise he found three articles dated on consecutive days. Warren accessed the latest.
“Still No Clue to Hospital Fire Cause,” and subheaded “No Date Set for Hospital Reopening,” by Ilene Ishue, staff writer.
Another reference to radioactive: “We were very careful checking for radiation,” Hargrove said. “and although we found none, we also didn’t find an obvious fuel source or any explanation for the pattern of burns and damage. We think it’s prudent to keep (Manzanita) hospital closed for now.”
Warren directed both computers to scan all federal agency files, an encyclopedic, cumbersome process. He key-worded the searches: ‘MRI.’ A skillful speed-reader, Warren browsed the redtags quickly, weeding through countless electromagnetic radiation studies, public health agency studies and exactly two Department of Defense files. He immediately opened those. One was a declassified weapons project, a star-wars-era magnetic pulse weapon based on MRI technology, which proved unbuildable, and the other, a fifteen-year-old file - still classified - called The Deverson Proposal.
Working through normal declassification channels would likely have taken six to eight weeks. Longer, now that a first-tier approval would have to come from Homeland Security. Many signatures would be required, many lengthy reports filed and processed.
Or, he could just run his own, personal, decryption sequencer, which often cracked older security codes. If security on the file hadn’t been updated, it just might break.
As it turned out, no one at DOD had made any additions to the file since it was written, and therefore no security enhancements. Warren opened the decrypted file easily and read that two analysts from DOD had visited a UC Davis Professor named Dr. Markland Deverson to witness a test of an allegedly powerful new energy source and, Defense Analysts had extrapolated, a potential weapon. But the staff report said the test had fizzled (‘fizzled’ - was the actual word the analyst used). Instead of a significant explosion as represented, Deverson’s device had emitted a ‘pop’ sound and a little puff of smoke.
The file also contained the original proposal from Dr. Deverson, in which the professor loftily claimed his discovery as ‘the most significant step in energy production research since splitting the atom,’ and…’the potential to provide clean, renewable electricity for a fraction-of-a-percent of current costs.’
And this is where it got strange. Deverson claimed he’d been able to produce measured electrical discharges in the one-gigawatt range while consuming a mere 40 kilowatts of electricity in the process. Que Mia! That bordered on perpetual motion. The paper was vague about the fuel source for this incredible machine, saying only that the fuel was organic, and it’s cost negligible.
Warren pondered the concept while cleaning his thick-rimmed glasses with his Madras shirttail. Organic decomposition? The most primitive form of energy production known to man! Woodfires were organic decomposition.
An interdepartmental memo, written by a branch head at the Department of Energy, had concluded that “Department Of Defense interest in Deverson’s research was initially based on prior weapons research conducted elsewhere with similar technology, but a subsequent DOD investigation indicated little or no merit to initial claims.”
The memo concluded that “Similarly, DOE does not see any reason to pursue this line of research and recommends this file be deactivated.”
And so it went. Deverson’s proposal got quadruple-backburnered into this quaint encryption file where it might have remained forever. But that was then. Now a mysterious explosion had rocked an MRI clinic in Southern California, and this Deverson guy suddenly looked like the only person with any kind of a clue! This - is the stuff of field investigations!
So where is Deverson now? It took Warren only a few minutes to find out he was deceased, legally declared so three years ago, but missing for ten, his body never found. Scanning newspaper morgues, police and fire reports, Warren learned that the old professor had disappeared after a mysterious fire in his backyard laboratory. A Deverson colleague, quoted in a local newspaper article, said the old professor ran off to Brazil with a young lab assistant. But according to the official report written by a Yolo Sheriff’s Sergeant Detective named Martin Evans, all Deverson’s valuables – real estate, jewelry, stock certificates, every cent - was accounted for. Nor were any of his personal effects missing; not even a toothbrush or extra pair of underwear. If you’re going to Brazil, do you leave your toothbrush behind? A forensics team had never found any trace of Deverson in the destroyed lab. But that was before routine DNA marking. The case had been left open for lack of evidence.
Cool. Warren printed three sets of hardcopies.
In spite of the preponderance of evidence, Al wasn’t convinced there was anything Warren could do down in Manzanita.
“But look at the big picture,” Warren argued. “What if these machines really
are dangerous! Suppose there’s a cover-up underway. Bribes being offered, mercenaries under hire…”
Ah, the vitality of youth, Al pondered as he spun himself once around in his massive, Herculon-covered office chair. Warren’s done a heckuva job here, unearthing this mess. And since both DOE and DOD might be interested in an updated field report, it just might be possible to charge-off the staff time to those agencies…just about the slickest thing a promotion-conscious regional division manager could ever hope to do.
“Come on, Al. You don’t want to have to explain to the press or congress or anyone in the department that you didn’t order a field report when you first got wind of it!”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to authorize a damn SIF,” Al said thoughtfully. “I’m gonna send you to Davis instead.”
Warren had wanted to go down to sunny Southern Cal with Tyler. Spend some quality time with the kid, a decent motel with a pool, sunshine, nice warm days, La Brea Tar Pits, Disneyland…
“The Bureau’s already checking Manzanita,” Al said. “But I don’t think they’re on to Davis yet.”
Davis, less than two hours east, was a boring compromise. But logical. A missing person ten years ago, and now another. Both cases involving MRI machines! And both accompanying unexplained fires! It had to start with Deverson.
“Suppose you spend a couple days in the Davis area,” Al said as he scribbled out the SIF Authorization Form. “Find out exactly who this Deverson was and exactly what happened to him.” Al pushed the form across his desk. “This file just got reactivated.”
Tyler heard his father’s voice in the portico talking with Mrs. Uller. He’d gotten into a fight at school but he wanted to tell his dad first, not have the daycare mom tell the school principal’s version.
Then he heard his dad groan, going from normal pitch to low pitch like it was a pretty bad thing. In his mind, he’d defended himself from a bully who got unlucky and fell on cement, with his head bleeding a lot and now everybody feeling sorry for him. For him!
“Tyler. We’ll have to talk about this,” Warren said. He conducted the eight-year-old boy out to a white Buick Lacrosse at the curb.
“Wow, we got a new car?” Tyler asked. “It’s so big!”
But Warren didn’t answer, distracted by something down the street, Mom, scowling, marching angrily toward them, her brown, polyester pants looking a couple sizes too large on her.
“You just don’t get it,” she snapped. “Was the judge unclear? I thought you had a college degree! Don’t you understand what the court order says?”
“I wanted to take him on a vacation for a few days, Louise. I’ve got an expenses-paid field assignment and I thought it would do him some good to get out of…”
“I don’t give a damn what you thought,” she snarled. “C’mon, Tyler!” She grabbed the boy, yanking him free of the Buick’s back door handle, to which he clung desperately.
They were yelling about him again. It made him feel worse than if they were yelling at him. He wished they would just do that now, yell at him for hurting that stupid kid, the two of them, side-by-side, yelling at him together. That would be better.
Warren drove the EPA pool car slowly back to his Pacific Heights flat. It was a beautiful Victorian apartment, immaculate, bay windows with a view of the Bay Bridge. But he didn’t want to be there just now. He couldn’t even bear to look in Tyler’s room. Two weeks here, two weeks with Louise, like watching a tennis match. He randomly scooped clothing from his drawers into two suitcases and left.
Friday afternoon traffic eastward out of The City was brutal, but Warren didn’t mind. He imagined what Tyler might have been saying about crossing the Bay Bridge, which to Warren’s knowledge, the boy had never done before. Or about the naval ships below, about the city lights in the gathering darkness. He liked seeing the world through those little eyes, everything fresh and new.
The EPA had an account with the Holiday Inns of America, so Warren headed to the one in Davis because this college town was centrally located for the itinerary he’d planned. But with Tyler absent, it would no longer be necessary to milk a couple extra days from the trip. There would be no boat rental on the American River, no horseback riding up in the Gold Country. So what would Tyler be doing instead? Watching television all week? Louise was weak. Unfit.
On the other hand, what would Tyler do while I’m working? Would he have taken the boy everywhere he went, sometimes made him wait in the car, sometimes left him alone in the hotel room? Would the little guy have understood?
Day 17
Thursday
Henrique Islands,
South Indian Ocean
The George Leygues Class Frigate Reims arrived just before 4:00 a.m. in the magic hour of early sunrise. She anchored outside the bay, out of view of the research station, and dispatched two enclosed motor-launches, each boat carrying a 60-caliber machine gun turret, loaded and manned.
The launches roared around Sphinx – the odd-shaped rock formation guarding the entrance to Alford Bay - and sprinted the half-kilometer to shore. The concrete walls of the commons building effectively muted the shriek of metal against gravel as the boats plowed aground. No one heard the three companies of night-goggled, body-armored Marines as they took up positions around the research station.
A tall, dark-haired officer directed traffic, one company sent to search the bungalows, another to the science labs, the third ordered into the commons building.
In the half-light Devon watched Emilie sleep. He studied her tiny, turned-up nose, the cleft in her small, slightly receded chin. An odd thought occurred to him: What will she look like when she’s 50? He could tell by the movement under her eyelids that she was dreaming. She let out a soft, sweet groan. Music.
She’d come to him after supper, to his private bungalow, and they’d sipped wine by candlelight, kissing, at first playfully, then more deeply. But she’d resisted going any further. Again, the back-home boyfriend… Laurent, or whatever his name was. Of course he didn’t pressure her, but he did invite her to stay with him and keep him warm. Keep each other warm. He was sure she’d stayed the night because of the attention he’d been directing at Ravinder. He hadn’t intended to make her jealous. But the Indian girl – dark, mysterious – it was impossible not to stare.
Poor Emilie! Forced to choose between he and Laurent. Choose or lose!
Devon gently kissed her chin, and slowly she opened her big round eyes, offering an inviting half-smile, her breathing short, labored. His eyes traced down across the skin above her breasts, heaving gently, quickly, her heartbeats accelerating. His fingers followed, barely grazing the down of tiny blonde hairs. She winced, the smile gone, the brown eyes burning into his, searching…
Suddenly the door burst open and two Marines launched themselves in, shouting: “Arrêtez! Ne bouge pas!”
Devon rolled off Emilie, almost fell out of bed. “Holyshit!” These guys are pointing guns at us!
“What do you want?” Emilie shrieked, raising her hands. The blanket slipped, exposing her sheer, silk bra, the small, firm breasts within. She pulled the blanket back up. “How dare you!”
The tall officer entered and said calmly, in perfect English: “There’s no danger here, corporal. You two wait outside.” The men obeyed.
“I am Lieutenant Petard. May I assume you are Devon Robbins?”
Devon nodded nervously.
“Good. Get dressed, both of you. Quickly please.” The officer left.
The soldiers escorted Devon and Emilie down to the rec room, the four hurrying through a stiff, wind-blown rain. Not unusual in this land of almost continuous storms, where it rained an average 300 days a year, often accompanied by up to 100 KPH gusts. Devon held the mud room door for Emilie, then stepped into the rec room. All the Island’s residents were already here, being held under guard, many students sitting on the floor, huddled together, frightened.
“Absurd!” Dr. Galli was saying. “There’s nothing here to terrorize. J
ust birds and rocks. We don’t even have any trees to hide behind…”
“Please do not be alarmed, but our intelligence must be taken seriously, “Petard said. “We will need to interview each of you individually.” The French officer began ushering students out, gently but firmly. “Please, this half of the room, everybody up…follow my men to the launch.”
“Wait a moment,” said Galli. “These students are my responsibility. You cannot take them off the island.”
“It’s for their own safety,” Petard said firmly. “We suspect a weapon was detonated here Sunday night. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety until you evacuate to our ship.” Ravinder and the other new arrivals started to move. “Yes, I assure you…you will be much more comfortable on Reims,” Petard coaxed. “It will only be for a short time. Now if you please, this half of the room…”
Devon and Emilie donned their yellow slickers and walked out to the launch together. The Frigate Reims had moved into the protection - such as it was - of Alford Bay, with swells running 1 – 2 meters. The storm had come up fast, as if out of nowhere. Common here.
Reims’ stern was anchored into the ocean current. With two pair of stabilizers deployed, she barely moved in the rough sea. Devon had heard about the amazing cuisine on French naval vessels. Compared to four days of no electricity, Reims looked like a floating five-star hotel. He and Emilie would get a comfortable room together and…
But when he stepped onto the launch gunwale, a Marine turned him away.
“Monsieur Robbins, if you would remain here please,” Petard said as he signaled his men to push the launch back into the water.
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